{Keep calm, Nightingale. They’ll give us their usual runaround, but I doubt they’re here to do you harm.}
I glance back to ensure Lincoln and his Associate Cog are still behind me. The tiny Cog peers into my helmet while Lincoln simply nods. My eyes drift toward some bushes where I notice two escorts as well as some of Terra’s men holding large firearms.
Straightening my back, I respond, {Aye, Speaker of Speakers. I am not intimidated whatsoever.}
Arata drags a bewildered Dennis further away from the Líng Nian.
Taking my quill, I write, “Arata, thy reflexes are quite remarkable. If that is what Mount Hua teaches, I am impressed.”
Arata performs a slight bow, yet his eyes are fixated upon the Líng Nian. “I must confess that I don’t think I would have been fast enough if not for the Líng Nian’s condition.” Turning toward the two Bishops, Arata asks, “Are you the one that stopped it, Bishop Bronx?”
“No, no, that’s Bishop Manhattan’s doing,” Bishop Bronx answers.
{Why do they call him Bishop Bronx and not Bishop of Bronx?}
{They’ll take the locality as their last name. It’s what they always do when more than one of them is around.}
Owl moves his camera close to the Líng Nian’s eyes so that the crowd may better see. He glances at me just as I shake my head and wave my hand..
With a nod, he ceases filming the Líng Nian, but it’s too late; the crowd has already begun murmuring:
“What are those black tears in its eyes?”
“Hex Church, Bishops? I’ve heard of them.”
“Wait, are they the reason all of Galtry’s thugs have been around lately?”
While they ask their questions to no one in particular, their attention moves between the Bishops and me. In their enumerable eyes, I can feel the anticipation of what I shall say.
I pick up the quill and write, “I ask that everyone maintain a healthy distance from the Líng Nian.”
The crowd presses closer together, placing several additional feet between them and the Líng Nian.
Bishop Bronx and Bishop Manhattan walk in front of Colin and Arata.
“I am Bishop Bronx, visiting my fellow clergyman, Bishop Manhattan,” Bishop Bronx’s voice is calm and lacks even a hint of malice. “Please, don’t let us interrupt. We do have something to say, but it would be better said closer to the end.”
I glance at Terra. She nods but says nothing.
“Bishop Bronx, Bishop Manhattan, prithee, move to the side for now. I still have a few closing announcements before we are free to pursue other matters.”
Dennis is helped to his feet by a doctor from the medical tent. Scoffing, Dennis wipes snow from his backside. Sweat drops from his forehead and his eyes burn holes into the Bishops.
The doctor attempts to remove Dennis’s coat to check for any injuries, but Dennis reflexively catches his wrist.
“O-oh, my bad!” Dennis says, releasing the doctor's wrist. “All that adrenaline, y’know?”
The doctor pulls his hand away and rubs a light bruise around his wrist. “Damn son, you’ve got quite a grip,” the Doctor remarks.
“...Y-yeah.” He flexes with a nervous chuckle. “I work out.”
Sensing an explicit change in Dennis’s behavior, I write, “Dennis art thou feeling well? Art thou injured?”
“I-I’m fine,” he responds curtly. “Wooo, boy. Haven’t gotten that close to being eaten by a reptile since canoeing the Okefenokee and I accidentally swan-dived onto an alligator.”
Inside my arc suit, I sense Sir Mouser’s weariness and desire to investigate. ‘Aye, Sir Mouser, it is odd, but I cannot allow thee to roam freely with the Bishops about.’
The doctor takes Dennis to the side and begins questioning him.
Hesitating for a moment, I finally write, “I know everyone is curious to hear from the Bishops, but Dennis requires a moment to re-gather his bearing.” While the Fairy’s voice still echoes, I continue, “So, I shall make use of this opportunity to urge all Pilgrims that aspire to enter the Tower to take a close look at these three creatures. These three shall be a part of the next ‘Quest.’”
It only takes a moment for the word ‘quest’ to become a murmur that ripples like wind over water.
“From henceforth, there shall be several varieties of quests: Public Pilgrim Quests, Private Pilgrim Quests, Tower Quests, Fairy Quests, and Mistress Quests.”
“So many? What’s the difference?” someone from the Crystal Trees Federation asks.
I glance at the Bishops to ensure they have not moved and then elaborate, “The differences are quite simple. Public Pilgrim Quests are placed by local camp leadership; the Tower officially has nothing to do with these. Private Pilgrim Quests are much the same, except they can be placed by any Pilgrim for nearly any reason. Tower Quests are tasks that exclusively take place inside the Tower. Fairy Quests will exclusively take place outside the Tower, typically benefitting the camp or mitigating future issues. Then there are Mistress Quests which come directly from the Mistress. Mistress Quests could involve anything and are either overly dangerous, critical to camp functions, or require discretion in some fashion.”
After allowing everyone a moment to absorb this information, I then add, “Beginning tomorrow, the first Tower Quest, as well as the second Fairy Quest, shall be hung upon the Frisbee Hill signboard. Watch for it there.”
“B-but wait! How is that fair?” a woman from the RWR Alliance asks. “There’s only been, like, forty greater tokens given out. Only they can participate in the Tower Quest!”
“Aye. It is quite simple, Pilgrim.” They pause, anticipating my answer. “It has naught to do with fairness, simply merit—they have earned the right to participate. Thou hath not proven thyself qualified.”
They open their mouth to respond, but I raise a finger, shake my head, and scribble, “Say naught more of what thou deem fair. If thou wish to partake in Tower Quests, prove thyself by first completing a Fairy Quest or earning one by some other means.”
“Lastly, everyone that intends to enter the Tower will be receiving a special object known as a messenger orb. Both the token and messenger orb will be required for admission, and both are privileges that may be taken back at any time for any reason.”
In the distance, I hear the typical explosions in the North of the city. General Riddick stands and marches off the stage, murmuring, “Goddamnit. What the fuck are those idiots bombing now.”
In my peripheral, I glimpse a box truck arriving at the crowd’s back.
At the same time, Dennis waves to get my attention and then makes a thumbs-up.
I look over the crowd and write, “I thank thee for thy time.”
Pretending to wipe his forehead, Dennis sighs. “Well! That was scary!”
A few people chuckle, but many simply nod in agreement.
“But, first things first….” Dennis holds up his hand, showing three fingers. “One, two, or three, skip the middleman, use your fingers. Which creature was the most ‘interesting’ one we’ve seen so far tonight?”
The Pilgrims glance at one another, and with unprecedented solidarity, they raise three fingers skyward.
My eyes narrow, and I raise my own hand.
“So it seems everyone’s in agreement, but what about….” Dennis glances back at me and freezes.
Their hands still showing three fingers, tens of thousands of Pilgrims eye me in bewilderment. I am one of the few dissenters, displaying only two fingers.
A few hundred Pilgrims drop one finger to match me. “...Two was honestly my favorite,” they murmur to the people next to them.
Ethan pumps his arm while Callum nods happily.
“Jävla skit!” Nyle shouts. “Is the Towering Sword the teacher’s pet or something!? They clearly lost.”
Belladonna jeers. “Maybe you’re just obnoxious?”
Meanwhile, Colin and Arata simply look… indifferent.
“Well, well! It would appear that Fairy thinks the Strummer Crab is more interesting than both the Carlin or the Líng Nian!” Laughing, Dennis turns to the Bishops, Colin, and Arata and asks, “Tell us, what does team Líng Nian think? It’s practically highway robbery, don’t you think!?”
Hearing Dennis’s blunt questions, a hush saturates the park.
Inside my arc suit, Sir Mouser and the cattail stir.
Behind me, I hear Lincoln murmur to himself, “This Dennis guy, does he have a concussion?”
Bishop Bronx does not spare Dennis even a glance. “As you can see, young man, none of us are even a little surprised. From the beginning, we were all reasonably sure the Fairy would bypass us.”
“Wait, you knew the Fairy wouldn’t choose the Líng Nian?” Feigning innocence, Dennis asks, “Or that she wouldn’t choose you? Is there some kind of animosity between you?”
Bishop Bronx chuckles and asks, “Can we please say something to the Fairy, Dennis?”
“Of course! The Hex Church rarely speaks in public, and I think it’s fairly obvious that we’re all dying with anticipation.”
“Well, we enjoy our privacy,” Bishop Bronx remarks, taking the speaking device from Dennis. He raises his hand high. “If you didn’t hear earlier, I am Bishop Bronx, and my fellow clergyman, as many of you would already know, is Bishop Manhattan. After all, some of you have been enjoying the food and warmth of our church.”
Many people in the crowd nod; others roll their eyes.
Bishop Bronx points at the Pilgrims, who rolled their eyes. “There are prevailing preconceptions of our humble church, so I’m simply attempting to dispel those prejudices ahead of time.”
I shake my head and write, “Why art thou here?”
“We’re here for one very simple reason….”
“Then forgo the prattle and speak it,” I write.
“Very well… We’re here to acknowledge our sins and ask that the hatchet be buried.” He turns toward the crowd. “Because the Hex Church has wronged the Fairy.”
Terra’s father steps to Bishop Bronx’s side. “Not the church but me. I wronged the Fairy,” he says with heavy regret.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
I recoil, and Terra clenches her fist.
“Weeks ago, I mistook the Fairy as a dangerous creature that leeches life from all those around them....” Bishop Manhattan taps his cane against the ground and says, “...and in my ignorance I attacked her. It was only recently that I realized that it was her.”
My finger spins Owl’s fidget trinket. I eye the crowd, finding their expressions a mixture of pity and anticipation.
The quill scratches against the pad as I write, “I have grown tired of thy fables. Do not believe his words, Pilgrims, for he is both a practiced liar as well as a known puppet-player.” [1]
“A liar? That blind Bishop? He seems pretty sincere.”
“The Hex Church has actually been hospitable.”
“Yeah, but this is coming from Fairy, so it’s probably the truth.”
“It is okay!” Bishop Manhattan shouts. “I came only to request that the mishap be held against me alone rather than the church’s congregation.”
The crowd’s murmurs become something akin to, “Liar or not, that’s kinda reasonable, isn’t it?”
I shake my head and am about to respond when Bishop Bronx picks up where Bishop Manhattan left off, “And to show his sincerity, we have brought someone that’s of great interest to you.”
My quill stops, and I look ahead.
A group of Hex Church Spirit Scribes elbows their way through the crowd, dragging someone with tattered, bloody attire and a canvas sack over their head.
“Who is this? What hast thou done to this person?” I write.
“What have we done? Nothing. We have no personal misgivings with this man.” They drag the man near the Ling Nian and make him kneel with his head down. “But we’re aware that the two of you have a history,” Bishop Bronx says, yanking the sack from their head.
The man bites at a gag in his mouth and refuses to look up. That does not prevent me from recognizing him as the traitor he is.
“Leo Rogers! On Thanksgiving Day, this disgraced police officer participated in a plot to assassinate the Fairy.” Bishop Manhattan places his fingers beneath their chin and raises their head. Somehow, Leo seems harder to recognize than when he was staring at the ground. “We captured Leo for the Mistress and the Fairy in hopes of letting bygones be bygones.” [2]
Lincoln removes something from his pocket and speaks into it, “Leo Rogers.” The device lights up. “This picture is really the same guy?” he murmurs to himself.
He’s right because Leo looks like a shadow of his former self. His light brown hair is unkempt and knotted, and he has grown a beard that rivals his hair. There is a sutured gash along his cheek. The wound moves all the way up to his right eye, where there is naught by a hollow socket.
I glance around, checking that the Bishop’s spirits are not near, and then discreetly ask, {Loss of the right eye, is that?}
{Yes.}
I nod. Loss of the right eye was a stipulated punishment in the subordinate contract Leo, Jessica, and the others made with Terra before the canister heist. It was the most severe punishment that the contract specified.
Countless eyes glare at Leo: questions, curses, and jeers are prevalent.
But then Dennis moves close to the speaking device and poses a question, “Are we sure that guy had anything to do with the assassination attempt? Didn’t Fairy say the Bishop always lied?”
“Wait, that’s true,” the Pilgrims whisper amongst themselves.
“Maybe they just kidnaped some dude and mutilated him,” Dennis remarks, gazing at Leo in pity. “I mean, the Fairy never notified us that this guy was on the loose.”
The Fairy’s voice booms, “Enough!” As the voice echoes across the crowd, I continue, “This has turned into a farce. I am not going to allow this to devolve into incoherent rambles. I simply do not possess the mental capacity right now. Hence, I shall clear the air immediately.”
I point at Dennis. “Do not goad anyone further; it is unnecessary.” My hand moves to Leo. “He is indeed a suspect. I did not mention it because I did not mention it. Simple as that.”
Dennis opens his mouth to speak, but I raise my hand. “Bishop Bronx, I do not knowest thou, so it’s rude for thou to come here and speak as if we are well acquainted.”
He performs a slight bow.
“Bishop Manhattan. My opinion on thy church reflects my opinion of its leadership.” I spin the wheel of Owl’s trinket. “And thou art a devil with a serpent’s tongue and a sour heart.”
“My apologies. It seems the Speaker has already degraded your opinion of me deeper than I ever dreamed. Once again, history repeats itself.” Bishop Manhattan places a palm over his sour heart and asks, “Isn’t that right, Speaker Galtry?”
The air freezes.
“I’ve suspected it for quite a while now, but I held out hope you’d tell the people yourself,” he says.
My fist clenches as I scribble, “Thou hast contin—”
Yet, I stop when a delicate hand lands upon my shoulder. “I think it’s about time for the Speaker to speak,” Terra says, her voice reverberating far and wide. She whistles and points at Leo. Her Syndicate guards rush over and secure him. “Bishop. Your wish is granted.”
Terra snaps a strap at the underside of her helmet. Silver strands of hair dance in the chilly breeze while the inky rings round her right eye dances in fiery defiance.
The jaws of the masses collectively drop. “Galtry!? In the flesh!” several people yell together.
With firearms raised, Syndicate guards rush from the bushes, pointing their weapons at Bishop Manhattan. Hundreds of Pilgrims don a nervous expression and begin leaving. Dennis glances at them, and shrugs.
“The Hex Church won’t be held responsible for your crime, you will. Just like you asked,” Terra declares with narrowed eyes.
Bishop Manhattan does his absolute best to contain a smile. “What an unexpected decision.”
“You came here, admitted your crime in front of all these people, and then have the nerve to say, ‘unexpected decision.’ You genuinely believe I’m stupid?”
“Oh? I just didn’t expect the crime lord Galtry would hold someone accountable for their ‘crime’ of ignorance. Doesn’t that qualify as unexpected?”
Terra’s face burns red.
Before her temper has a chance to swell, I write, “Pilgrims, Galtry has sworn to protect the Tower, and is her involvement truly so surprising? Mere weeks ago, when the Consortium refused to concede the Terrace to us, many Pilgrims shouted, ‘where is Galtry.’ The Mistress heeded thy call and summoned Galtry herself, delivering her the position of Speaker.”
The crowd is dwindling fast, but those that remain appear enamored by the drama:.
“The people that said that weren’t locals; they just know her from TV and books.”
“Galtry’s only a little better than the monsters.”
“Who better to stop monsters than a monster?”
“Who’s supposed to be the ‘practiced puppet-player,’” Bishop Manhattan mumbles, patting the dolls he carries at his waist.
Ignoring his remark, Terra asks, “Bishop Bronx, why did you choose now of all times to make an appearance? What’s your purpose? Is something about to happen?”
“Of course, we interfered to stop the Líng Nian from killing anyone.” He gestures toward Leo. “We didn’t intend to bring him yet, but things were becoming heated.”
I glance at Terra. {Thou believe the Bishops are anticipating something?}
With a scowl, she nods. {It’s time for us to take our leave.}
My eyes narrow. “Further information regarding the Tower’s opening shall be posted on the Frisbee Hill signboard... Ethan, Callum, Nyle, Belladonna, each of thou have gone beyond what I originally intended for this quest. For that, all four of thou shall receive a greater token to keep for thy own use. Congratul—”
The Fairy’s voice is still echoing when General Riddick returns with a group of soldiers following behind. “Tell everyone they need to return to their camps,” he says in between huffs of air.
Without hesitation, I write, “Everyone there is an emergency—do not ask questions—simply return to thy camps immediately.”
The remaining crowd nods and gathers their friends and family.
“W-wait, no! Everyone stay put!” Dennis shouts at the sparse masses. He hurries toward the stage, waving his hands. “There’s one more surprise entry!”
The truck I noticed earlier blares its horn as it makes its maneuvers through the crowd.
“Nay, we are not accepting any more creatures. Tell them to stop,” I write.
Bishop Bronx laughs and asks, “Poor Dennis, did Bishop Manhattan and I distract you from your plan?”
“Plan? You’re going senile, Bishop Bronx.” Dennis says, walking up the stage’s stairs.
Terra scowls and raises a pistol at Dennis. “Are you plotting something, Dennis?”
Dennis glances at the thinning crowd, shakes his head, and chuckles. “Of course not, Galtry! I’m just coming onto the stage to wave the truck down. How else will they know to stop?”
At that moment, something odd happens. The snow and trees shudder in such a way that the whole world turns silent.
...The ground rumbles. An earsplitting boom shatters the calm. The crowd surges and screams.
As a black plume swells near the Terrace, an arm wraps around me.
“Back!” Lincoln screams.
Lincoln yanks me back. Dennis draws a pitch-black weapon.
There’s a bang. Blood sprays from Dennis’s neck.
The truck squeals as its wheels dig into the snow. The crowd shrieks.
“Get down!” General Riddick commands.
Lincoln embraces me and spins around. A horn blares—two blinding lights grow huge.
Sparks fly, my kiln burns.
Wooden planks shatter as we are slammed deep into the stage’s bowels.
A board impales my head, cleaving my vision in two. Metal bars squeal—the stage collapses.
+1 Sturdiness
9 Stat Points Remaining
Blunt Damage to Shell: 55 Durability
Shield Absorbs: 70% of Damage or 38.5 Durability
Durability Remaining: 51.5
Max Shield Remaining: 116.5
Blunt Damage to Satellite: 19
Coming to a stop somewhere inside the stage, I shout, ‘Sir Mouser!?’
The cattail snaps the board, running through the back of my head. When I draw it out, Sir Mouser’s crystal slips out through my shattered helmet. His crystal blinks.
I nod. ‘Aye, I am fine.’
My eyes search for any sign of Lincoln, but I find nothing, not even a sign of blood.
Outside, muffled screams mix with the sounds of firearms.
“Call hazmat now! Fuckin’ blow the big one’s head off!” General Riddick commands in a hoarse voice.
The cattail begins to dig our way out. ‘Terra is out there, Sir Mouser; she’s important! We must hurry!’
A minute later, a plank snaps in two, the shivering light outside tinges my body orange.
I crawl outside.
The trees burn. Dozens of bulky figures trudge toward Sheeps Meadow. They pause only to expel plumes of infernal fire to scorch the earth further.
Trucks tear through the snowfall.
Masses of screaming shadows flee from them.
Figures within the trucks launch canisters out the windows. The canisters bury themselves in the snow, and jaundiced gas erupts from their craters.
Mushrooms begin to sprout.
Clickers dart by.
There’s a streak of light, and their flanks burst open—two crash into a snowdrift. Distinctive tracks left by the Strummer Crab and the Líng Nian run adjacent to the clicker’s wreckage.
“H-help,” a voice gurgles.
I dip low, recognizing the voice as Dennis’s.
Dennis’s bloodied arm rises from the stage’s debris.
From the smoke walks a woman’s figure. Their attire resembles boney armor that’s been dipped in reddish-black wax.
“H-help,” Dennis gurgles once more through bloody froth.
The figure reaches back. With a boney crack, they snap some sort of narrow writhing cannon from their back.
They take aim at Dennis.
“No, ple—”
A hellish jet spews from the cannon. Flames spread outward, setting the stage’s debris alight. Dennis’s body collapses into hot coals.
They remove a rolled vellum scroll from a pouch at their side. The cannon cracks open, they slide the scroll inside.
“What a panicky bitch! Two Bishops show up and the guy loses his composure.” Their head drifts in my direction. “...And whaddayaknow, it’s just us now, Red. Did you miss me?”
Flames lick at their feet as they step toward me.
I fall back into my wooden pigeonhole. [3]
“Red,” they say with a prolonged sigh. “This might be a little off-topic, but... do you know one reason why I fuckin’ hate the absolute crap humans put into fantasy novels, movies, games, and well, the whole genre, really?”
I shove Sir Mouser through a small split between planks. ‘Find Terra!’
Sir Mouser hurries away.
“Gonna keep pretending you aren’t there? Whatever, that's fine.” Wooden boards quiver as they walk across the stage’s rubble. “The reason I hate fantasy shit is because their reasoning for the lack of guns and simple technology is always backasswards. There’s magic, so no one ever invented anything like a gun?”
They laugh with exaggerated scorn. “Come the fuck on! That’s an excuse to not invent gunpowder, but in its simplest form, the gun itself is literally just a channel for the bullet.” A shadow blocks the light of the fires outside. “I mean, all this shitty fuckin’ fantasy crap really expects me to believe that no one thought, ‘Hey! What if we used magic, buuut like, through a fucking tube!?’ What utter bullshit; if anything, they wouldn’t have invented bows and arrows!”
A blood-spattered whiteboard slips into my pigeonhole.
“But anyway, don’t be rude, we need to have a chat about a little Fly that the Maw had sunk its teeth into before you. Soooo, yeah, here comes the obligatory hurry-your-ass-up shot.” There’s a bang. A board next to my belly explodes, pelting me with splinters. “Next one won’t miss, so come on out and say hi to your ol’partner in crime, Jessica.”