An uneasy feeling creeps over you as you spent long hours sitting at Barbeau’s bedside, slowly settling in until it becomes inescapable. It takes you a while to realise just what the feeling is. Looking at Barbeau’s face – haggard and worn, brought to the edge of destruction by what he experienced here – feels somehow like a premonition, a glimpse at your own future. Still, you endure the grim feeling for the sake of learning what Barbeau knows, what he’s able to tell you in his rare moments of lucidity.

Time passes, hours turning into days, but you pay little attention as it creeps by – until, that is, your patience finally hits its limit.

Walking on stiff, aching limbs, you skulk back to the company dormitory and all but slam the door behind you. A few eyes turn your way, disinterested employees glancing up at the sudden sound. Ignoring them, you march towards one of the bedrooms at the rear. As you walk, your foot clips against a footlocker carelessly left jutting out into the open. It doesn’t hurt at all, considering your heavy hiking boots, but it’s enough for your temper to flare. With a snarl, you kick the container across the room with a loud bang, scattering the meagre contents across the dorm.

“Isambard!” Alex scolds, looking up from his book. He sees something in your face, then, and the sharpness fades from his eyes. Quickly rising from his chair, he grabs your arm and pulls you away from the staring eyes. Ushering you into one of the bedrooms and firmly shutting the door behind him, he looks you up and down. “What’s wrong?” he asks, before sighing, “Isambard… when was the last time you ate anything? Or slept?”

“I’ve slept enough,” you lie, waving away his concerns.

“What is it, then?” Alex continues, concern darkening his face, “Did Adrian say something?”

“Adrian didn’t say a damn thing!” you spit, “He doesn’t know anything about the Stryx, about anything. This whole trip was a waste of time.”

“Oh come on, lad! Adrian and his wife are alive because of us,” he retorts with a frown, “Two lives saved. I’d hardly call that a waste of time.”

“Two lives saved, but how many people died because of us? Because of me?” you hiss, lowering your voice to a whisper. Ossian’s words surface in the dark waters of your mind as Alex falls silent. For all their sins, the real trouble only started when you arrived. “Madness and death follow wherever I go, Alex,” you continue, “Will I be swallowed up by it too, one day? Will any of you?”

[1/3]

>>6266786 (OP)

Previous: https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Moloch

With no answer to offer, Alex silently withdraws. He knows you well enough to know when to retreat, to leave you alone with your thoughts. Yet, you don’t have much time to brood – a short moment after Alex leaves, you hear another knock at the door. Preparing yourself for an argument, you open the door only to see Galt’s bruised face waiting for you.

“I just, um, wanted to thank you. For everything,” Galt begins, “I’ll admit, I really thought that Adrian was lost. I thought that I was just doing this for closure, so I could know what happened to him. Of course, I was no help at all… ahem. Well, um, are you all packed?”

“All packed for what?” you ask. The rest of Galt’s words passed you by like a meaningless buzz, but those last words stayed with you.

“The train,” Galt explains, a faint confusion in his voice, “The train back home, remember? It leaves later today.”

Has it really been that long? You must’ve wasted more time than you thought at Adrian’s bedside, listening to his inane mumblings in the rare moments that he was conscious.

Galt’s eyes widen as you let out a soft curse, as if he was expecting a completely different reaction. “I thought you’d be happy to leave this place,” he remarks, “Was there something else you needed?”

Maybe. Maybe not. Young Master Waller’s death has left you with a vague sense of dissatisfaction, a sense that some precious knowledge may have died with him. You might just have enough time to search through his manor before leaving, assuming Evelyn allows it, but then what of Ossian? The priest’s last words to you, his knowing smugness, also feels like an unanswered question. Staying in Walpurgis for even longer is out of the question, but there’s still so much unfinished business…

“Um…” Galt hesitates, “I’ll leave you to get ready, so… oh, Miss Heather!”

You glance up, seeing the frail, ghostly woman standing in the doorway. Her gaze, unfocussed, looks straight past Galt as if she sees something that no human eye can see. He mumbles something else, a vague apology perhaps, and hurriedly slips past her. Clutching something to her chest, she enters the bedroom and sits down in one of the vacant chairs.

“Is there something I can do for you?” you ask after a long silence, in the hopes of prompting her to speak.

“There’s something I have to give you,” Miss Heather replies in a soft, low voice.

“Something you HAVE to give me,” you repeat, sensing something in her tone, “But not something you WANT to give me.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “Perhaps it’s a curse, an ill omen. But I felt very strongly that you should have it.”

[2/3]

>>6266790

Gently taking your hand, Miss Heather places something cool and firm into your grasp. You hold the delicate object for a moment, half expecting to feel the sudden rush of power that accompanied so many of the other trinkets you’ve accumulated in recent days. But you feel nothing, just a vague sense of foreboding. Opening your hand, you look down at the tiny object – a bleached bird skull, marred by several black stains.

“I spent a long time wandering the forests. I don’t remember much of it, where I went or what I did, but I do remember…” Miss Heather hesitates, “I remember wanting to leave the world behind, to flee from it all and find some secret place. A place where nobody could find me, a place where only the night owls would know my name.”

“I think…” another pause, “I think I found that place. And I brought that thing back with me.”

You wonder if Magdalene might know of this secret place. She’s the only person you can think of who might know the dark corners of this town and the surrounding woods – provided you can actually find her.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Heather gasps suddenly, blindly groping for the skull, “I never should have brought this to you. I don’t know why I-”

“Leave it with me,” you interrupt, drawing the skull back away from her trembling hands. She flinches back a little, then rises to her feet with a jerky motion. Bowing her head for a moment, she slips away and vanishes from the room. The stillness that follows in her wake is so complete, so sudden, that if not for the bird skull in your hand you’d think that you’d imagined the whole encounter.

You look down at the tiny skull, and you wonder.

>This “secret place” warrants further investigation. Magdalene might be able to help
>You’ve still got unanswered questions about Theo and his death
>This might be your last chance to talk with Ossian, and learn more about his cult
>There’s no point in looking for trouble when you’re this close to leaving. You should just take it easy
>Other

>>6266792
>This “secret place” warrants further investigation. Magdalene might be able to help
The most direct lead we have. Maybe this is our purpose in coming here?

Welcome back, QM!

>>6266796
Supporting

>>6266796
+1
I do wonder about Theo though. Ossian is simple enough, no use speaking with him

The bird skull is such a fragile little thing, so delicate that merely closing your fist around it would be enough to reduce it to dust. You could destroy it here and now, and put all Heather’s talk of curses and ill omens behind you. But, of course, you don’t. Rummaging in your modest luggage for a moment, you take out a spare boot lace and loop it through the skull. With the tiny totem dangling from around your neck, you get up and start to leave.

“Isambard?” Alex ask, hurriedly glancing up as you brush past him, “Are you-”

“I’m going out for a bit,” you answer curtly, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time for the train home.”

“...Alone?”

“Alone,” you nod, “I’ll travel faster on my own.”

You leave before he can muster up a counterargument.

-

You don’t dwell too long on the task of finding Magdalene, simply setting off into the forest in full confidence that she’ll find you. If she doesn’t want to be found here, in her home territory, you won’t find her, and no amount of searching will change that. So you walk on, following the partial trail until it leads you to Barbeau’s cabin. There, of course, Magdalene sits waiting for you on the front step.

“I thought you’d be getting ready to leave,” she remarks, although there’s little surprise on her face or in her voice.

“Soon. I’ve got time to tie up one last loose end,” you reply, lifting the bird skull from around your neck and tossing it across to Magdalene. She catches it deftly, studying it with a solemn eye. “Miss Heather found that somewhere in the forest. Some secret place, she said,” you explain, “It might be a curse or an ill omen, but she wanted me to have it regardless.”

“Did you do something to offend her?” Magdalene glances up, one corner of her mouth twisted by a faint smirk.

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Not that you’d really care if you did.

“These forests are full of secret places, places that have never been touched by man. Some, perhaps, that have never even seen the sun,” Magdalene thinks for a moment, “Come on then, follow me. Let’s see if we can find this secret place of yours. One thing, though – do you know what you’ll do when you find it?”

Not “if” you find it, but “when”.

“I’ll decide that at the time,” you shrug, “If I was to do something especially malicious, would you try to stop me?”

“Hm,” Magdalene tilts her head to the side, “I’d decide that at the time.”

You’d expect nothing less. Without another word, she gets to her feet and starts off into the forest. There’s no attempt at searching for a trail, for any sign of disturbed ground or human activity. She simply picks a direction and starts walking. Without a second thought, you follow after her. Soon, as the trees close behind you, you lose all sight of the cabin. Your sense of direction fades soon after, but there’s no fear.

If the forest swallows you up, then so be it.

[1]

>>6266808

It doesn’t take you long to realise that you’re not just wandering at random. While there are no easy footprints to follow, there IS a trail – an ephemeral thing, sensed only as a tingle feeling at the very edge of your perception. Once you notice it, the feeling grows more acute. Any sane man would turn and flee from the feeling, even with no knowledge of what it meant. You allow it to guide you onwards.

When the ground beneath your feet starts to slope downwards, you know that you’re close. Some terrible act of subsidence happened here, something that caused the earth to collapse inwards like a deep crater. The trees surrounding the crater list and lean inwards, their branches having grown into a thick tangled dome above your head. It’s not quite one of those sunless places Magdalene mentioned, but it’s very close.

Magdalene grabs your arm before you can venture too far down the uneven slope, silently gesturing around you. Countless animal skulls litter the slope, carefully turned so their blind, empty eye sockets face inwards. The very centre of the crater is filled with a thick black fluid, the surface occasionally rippling as a large bubble sluggishly makes its way to the top.

You’ve seen that fluid before, you realise. It’s the same cantankerous slime that had tainted some of the lowest sections of the Demesne. Somehow, impossibly, it’s here too.

“Be careful,” Magdalene warns, though it seems as if she’s talking to herself more than you. Waving her away with a gesture, you continue a little further down the slope. There’s a slight rocky outcrop just before the bottom, just stable enough for you to balance without touching the inky black liquid. Slowly, cautiously, you squat down on the makeshift platform. At the urging of some diabolical instinct, you tentatively reach out a hand.

The pool reacts, but not in any way that liquid ought to react. It trembles, a drop of the liquid impossibly rising up and out of the main pool. It hovers there, the shape shifting from a perfect sphere to something lined with dull spikes, as if awaiting your touch.

You can sense power here, a formless power that you could twist into a shape of your own design, but also a terrible corruption.

>You need every drop of strength that you can get. Claim this power for yourself
>This power holds a deep and ancient corruption. Reject this tainted power
>Other

>>6266830
>Unveil your frozen moonlight, see it for what it really is.

Insight and understanding grants us far more use than raw unthinking power. Do not make the mistake our Father made, of grasping for power at any price, then finding out how much it actually cost.

>>6266838
+1

>>6266830

You gaze into the perfect darkness of the pool for what seems like an eternity, all thoughts of the train home forgotten. The longer you look, the more you start to make out images within the inky blackness. Even as the surface of the pool ripples and stirs, you see hard edges and straight lines deep – impossibly deep – within the liquid. It suddenly reminds you of sitting on the banks of Lake Hali with Gratia at your side, listening as she whispered a story to you – a story about a great sunken city, swallowed in a single night by the wake of its sins.

The idea causes a new clarity to cut through you like a knife. What would a child know of sins? You feel yourself drawing back from the black sphere, even as it pulses with the rhythm of your heartbeat. Obeying your better instincts, your reason and rationality, you reach deep into your pocket, closing your fist around the reassuring chill of the frozen shard of moonlight. Drawing it free, you cast the pure white light across the surface of the black liquid and-

With a hoarse, strangled cry, you blindly throw the shard of moonlight aside and seek refuge in the darkness that descends. You caught only a glimpse of what lay within the pool, simultaneously not enough and far too much. You saw a city of ancient grey stone, the squat pyramids and great ziggurats drowning beneath an ocean of blackness. More blackness dotted the roofs and balconies of the dead city, each one representing a nightmarish bird.

“A whole city devoured by the Stryx,” a soft voice begins, “And that city was just a small part of a whole world.”

You look up, gazing into the pure black eyes of the spirit sitting across from you. She draws her languid fingers across the surface of the black lake, but she leaves no trail.

“I thought you’d have gone by now,” you reply quietly, “The Stryx has left, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” the Gratia-thing answers, “But some stains aren’t so easily washed away. They linger. But you needn’t fear – so long as this place is left alone, the people beyond the forest are in no danger. They won’t come here. But YOU did.”

“Foolishly, perhaps.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“Perhaps I was looking for a place to disappear.”

“There are a great many places in this world, and beyond it, that could grant that wish. But I think you had something else in mind,” she muses, “You came seeking strength. Here, take it. This is the strength of your forefathers, a power that saw them blaze a trail across countless worlds. You could do the same, if you wished.”

“That same power destroyed them,” you point out.

“Then you can learn from their mistakes, and succeed where they failed,” she urges, “Take it. Embolden your sickly spirit.”

>You’ll bear any curse, if that’s what it takes. Accept this power
>You won’t be a party to your own destruction. Refuse the power
>Perhaps you could talk a little instead… (Write in)
>Other

>>6266864
>You’ll bear any curse, if that’s what it takes. Accept this power
>Perhaps you could talk a little instead… (Write in)
"Tell me... With this power, can I save not just my world, but my sister? The one whose face you're wearing?"

>>6266864
>You won’t be a party to your own destruction. Refuse the power
Just imagine us turning into our father. Ugh.

>>6266864
>>Perhaps you could talk a little instead… (Write in)

So who or what are you to try and tempt me so to take it? And how would this embolden my spirit? What does that even mean?

>>6266879
+1
Isambard has every reason to be hesitant here. He's SEEN what this kind of shit does

>>6266864
>You won’t be a party to your own destruction. Refuse the power
>>6266878
Makes a good point. Folly to save our world for now but make ourselves into its eventual destroyer by doing so

>>6266864
>you blindly throw the shard of moonlight aside
Recover it NOW

>>6266864
I'm >>6266898
I'm backing this too
>You won’t be a party to your own destruction. Refuse the power
This is clearly bait, folly incarnate. No way we can let ourselves take this. Just ask the questions, retrieve the Moonlight Shard >>6266906 then fuck off back to the train

“Tell me something,” you say slowly, forcing yourself to stare into the black eyes opposite you, “With this power that you speak of, could I not just save the world, but the one whose face you now wear? Could I save my sister too?”

“Do you really believe that she needs saving?” the Gratia-thing replies, not with the coy mockery that her words suggest but with what seems like genuine curiosity in her voice. “Men have always been haunted by questions of sin and salvation, good and evil. Your sister has been granted great power but, deeming that power to be “unclean”, you seek to strip it from her. Would she thank you, if you did?”

“You won’t answer my question,” you breath, turning your gaze away from the apparition. All of a sudden, gazing into that familiar face seemed far too painful.

“Then I will answer a different question. Could this power separate your sister from the Stryx that now shares her mind? The answer is no,” the apparition whispers, her voice suddenly coming from close beside you, “There is no separation, no “her” and “it”. They are one.”

You’re not sure how you’re supposed to feel about that. You just feel numb, hollow. But not surprised.

“And who are you?” you ask quietly, shuddering as you feel the gentle weight of the creature resting her head on your shoulder. Gratia would do that too, back in another lifetime. “You wear a familiar face and whisper sweet promises, but what do you hide behind that mask?” you continue, “Will you answer THAT question? Can you?”

“I am…” the spirit pauses, and not just for dramatic effect. You feel a genuine hesitation, uncertainty stilling her tongue. “I’m the other half of her,” she whispers at last, “She has become a part of the Stryx, but that river flows in both directions. A single drop of blood may fall into an ocean of ink and become invisible, but it will always remains there. Some stains-”

“They linger.”

“They linger,” she murmurs in agreement.

“And this stain would…” you pause, recalling her words, “Embolden my sickly spirit?”

“Just as your forefathers wove threads of gold into their souls, seeking to mend whatever deficiencies they had. They sought to become something greater than what they were, though they were foolishly branded heretics for their actions,” the Gratia-thing continues, “So fell the House of Megistus. But the House of Pale need not fall.”

Cold fingers brush against your cheek as the apparition gently turns your face towards hers. With the inky black fluid slowly dripping down her fingers, she offers her hand out to you as Gratia once did.

“I don’t want it to fall,” she whispers.

[1]

>>6266916

It takes a heroic convulsion of will just to make the slightest motion, just to pull your head back as the apparition raises her stained fingers to your lips. A ripple of emotion runs across her face, surprise turning to a poisonous cocktail of pain and anger before emotion drops away entirely. In its place is something far colder, far more ancient, and utterly removed from all humanity. The face remains unchanged, but all illusion has been stripped away. There can be no mistaking the thing that lurks behind those ink black eyes.

With the sound of a great rustling of feathers, the apparition lunges at you, but you’re faster. In a frantic burst of energy, you throw yourself away from the grasping, groping fingers that reach for you. Scrabbling up the steep slope, you thrust one hand out and close your fist around the familiar chill of the frozen moonlight. Clinging tightly to it as if it was your lifeline, you twist around and thrust it out towards-

Magdalene?

“Hey!” the scarred woman snaps, starting to reach for you before thinking better of it, “What happened?”

You don’t answer that, simply slumping back as all the tension bleeds from your body. With no easy answer to give, you instead say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I think I’ve got a train to catch.”

-

Though Magdalene is oddly reluctant to talk, you manage to get her to explain her version of events. It would be an understatement to say that they were different to yours. To hear Magdalene tell it, the encounter only lasted a few brief seconds. You had been studying the black liquid when you took out your “glowing thing” – to use her words. Almost immediately, you had recoiled in the same horrified state that Magdalene found you in. No long conversation, no alluring apparition. Nothing.

You’re not lucky enough to believe that it was all in your imagination. The conversation was real, as was the danger associated with it. The question, then, is not one of reality. The conversation was REAL, but how much of it was TRUE?

If you wished to destroy someone, would you tell them sweet lies or the remorseless truth?

It doesn’t even occur to you until much later that the bird skull totem that Miss Heather gave you is gone. Good riddance.

-

There’s a part of you that expected a last minute disaster to rear its head, even up to the moment that the ancient locomotive crawls into view. You stand back, silent and sullen, as Alex haggles with the confused train driver for your passage. It’s a freight train, after all, with no room for human cargo. An argument about rules and regulations swirls around you, barely noticed, until the time comes to finally board. Taking your seat atop a wooden crate, you stare down at your boots – a small black stain clings to one toe.

You’ll have to burn those boots when you get back home.

[2/3]

>>6266928

With a heavy creak of wood, Alex sits down beside you. This is hardly the place for a heart to heart conversation, given the uncomfortable “seats” and the rattling din of the engine, but this is the moment he’s chosen.

“Adrian and Miss Heather will need to rest a little longer before they can travel, but they should be able to catch the next train. Master Galt volunteered to look after them,” Alex explains, “You remember them, don’t you lad? Adrian Barbeau and his lovely wife. Master Galt too – from what I’ve heard, he might have lost his head if not for you.”

“I could have done nothing, and they could all have died,” you muse, “But the arc of the world would carry on without interruption.”

“The arc of the world would carry on without interruption,” Alex repeats, quietly marvelling at your words, “You know, that sounds like something your father would have said at your age. Even among his little clique of Coral House libertines, he was considered pretentious.”

“I’m not pretentious!” you snap.

“Well, maybe you should stop acting like it,” Alex scolds lightly, “At least Gideon would take a break from the philosophising to drink and chase women. When was the last time you did any of that, eh?”

“When I finish clearing up the last of his mess, that’s the first thing I’ll do,” you mutter, scowling down at your sullied boots, “And I really did not want to imagine my father indulging his more… base appetites, thank you.”

Although you will admit, it does provide a distraction from the impending doom. Not the most welcome distraction, but beggars can’t be choosers.

“You’re welcome,” Alex remarks with a smile.

>I’m going to pause here for today. I’ll be continuing tomorrow, starting at the same approximate time
>Thank for your playing today, I’m glad to be back and writing again!

>>6266937
We made the right choice. Isambard lives another day and so does his group.
>“I’m not pretentious!” you snap.
Bro where's your My Chemical Romance? Where's your Linkin Park? Where's your classic early 2000s emo edgecore, you gloomy white-haired prettyboy with a tragic past and a shitty dad?

>>6266937
Thanks for running!

>“Well, maybe you should stop acting like it,” Alex scolds lightly, “At least Gideon would take a break from the philosophising to drink and chase women. When was the last time you did any of that, eh?”
What? We flirt with Juno constantly!

>>6266952
Kek

>>6266937
Thanks for running. it's good to have this quest back!

>>6266937
>At least Gideon would take a break from the philosophising to drink and chase women. When was the last time you did any of that, eh?”

We do need to have a good drinking sesh with Juno…

Thanks for running QM

>>6266952
God, Bard would listen to the angstiest early 2000’s music. Bullet for my valentine for sure

So one possible ending is to stain the Styx enough that they stop holding any particular interest in destroying worlds, likely sacrificing at least Gratia and Isambard, possibly even the harem too.

If we were to coat our weapons with the effluvium they'd be insane weapons but also taint the Stryx with the anger and wrath of whoever we kill with it. Teaching fear to Stryx is a huge gamble, and just as likely to destroy us all.

Staining puppets made by Phalris might be an angle, if she can figure out how to imbue them with singular aspects after failing whole people.

>>6267241
>giving fear and terror and blood
>to the eldritch shadow bird race that feeds on fear and terror and blood
Could this actually be a good thing?

Your visit to the town of Walpurgis, while not exactly an unmitigated disaster, certainly seemed close to one. Despite Alex’s best attempts at cheering you up, it feels as if you’ve gained nothing but lost some intangible thing. Even if someone was to put a gun to your head, you’re not sure if you could put a name to that ephemeral feeling, but you know that something has changed. Can something exist only as an absence?

Perhaps it’s Gratia. Despite your best attempts at convincing yourself that the apparition had spoken only lies, the doubt remains. If Gratia truly was no more, consumed by the Stryx and inseparably merged with them, how could you prove it? If the new being had inherited her personality, all of her memories, even it might think itself to be her.

All the way home, you wrestle with the idea. You feel torn between two opposites – to hurry out into the forest and visit Gratia within the depths of the Demesne, or to shy away from seeing her again. You can’t avoid her forever, of course, but you can always make it tomorrow’s problem. Given enough distractions, it might ALWAYS be tomorrow’s problem.

-

The estate feels cold and hostile when you return back home, sheets of cold rain crashing down against the barren soil. Raising the collar of your coat in a puny attempt at warding off the foul weather, you hurry up to the front door and jab your key into the lock like a dagger. It’s drier inside, but the bitter chill remains. Alex hurries off into the depths of the house to start a fire, while you take a slow, aimless wander as if reminding yourself of the place. It feels as if you’ve been gone for far longer than you really have.

In the main dining room, you find the package. It’s not hidden at all, in fact laid out in such a way as to ensure that it catches your attention. A simple thing really, loosely wrapped in crumpled newspaper. Slowly opening it, you find a broken fragment of stone nestled within the wrapping. A short letter accompanies the package, and you waste no time in reading it over.

[Axis Mundi Fragment – Solitude: +1 Solitude Attunement.]

“Dear brother,” the note begins, “I found this within the depths of the labyrinth. There are other fragments down there, I’m sure of it. Come back soon, and we can look for them together. I confess, I’ve been missing you terribly. I dream of you when I sleep, but my dreams are troubled – in them, I see you sinking beneath a great black ocean. They concern me greatly, these dreams.”

And the note, of course, is signed with Gratia’s name.

[1/2]

>>6267352

Later, much later, you sit the dim light of your bedroom and listlessly move around the pair of stone fragments. There’s no doubt that they form a single piece, an ancient work of craftsmanship carved with a pattern denoting… what? You have theories, but they’re all impossible to prove without gathering more of the stone fragments. Even if you had them all, however many there may be, your theories might still be impossible to prove.

A welcome distraction comes in the form of a gentle knock at the door. The door opens a moment later, and Elle pokes her head around the edge. Without waiting for an invitation, she enters the room and, in the absence of a spare chair, sits down on the edge of your bed. “I know that we’ve only recently returned from a long journey, and I’ll understand if you have no wish to discuss further travels,” the oracle begins, “But there was something I thought of.”

In truth, you’re not really in the mood to travel. Then again, you’re not in the mood to stay and rest either. So, you gesture for her to continue.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the Nicean prophecies lately. I can’t shake the feeling that they might be important,” Elle explains, “So… I’d like to visit Amaryllis.”

“Amaryllis,” you repeat.

“Mm. It’s a holy place in the Silvera lands. Larger than a town, smaller than a city. Supposedly, it’s where Saint Nicea is buried. You’ve always got to be at least a little sceptical about these things, of course, but this one always felt… real to me,” she remarks with a faintly embarrassed smile, “I’m telling myself that I want to go and pray there, in the hopes of receiving some guidance from the Emanations, but really-”

“You just want to go and see it for yourself.”

“Yes, exactly,” Elle nods, “I’m sure the weather would be better than it is here, and it’s almost the complete opposite of Walpurgis. Would you… care to accompany me?”

There’s something unspoken in her offer, something about as subtle as a slap across the face even when left unsaid.

>That sounds like an excellent idea. We can go, just the two of us
>I like your thinking. Let me tell the others, and we can all go together
>You should go, if that’s what you want. I’ve got commitments here
>Other

>>6267354
>That sounds like an excellent idea. We can go, just the two of us

>>6267352
>my dreams are troubled – in them, I see you sinking beneath a great black ocean.
But we dodged this outcome

>>6267354
>I fear if I go there I'm going to find some excuse to dig up the grave
>We should figure out how to deal with the black gunk, if it fills the demense.
I'm guessing there's no grappling hooks, and wooden boards will only get us so far. I expect shovels will be a futile effort. Actually, hold on.

>Maybe it's time to visit Cato. We'll split up if needed.

>>6267352
>If the new being had inherited her personality, all of her memories, even it might think itself to be her.
If it inherited all her memories to the point it believes itself to be her, then what difference is there? It might truly be her.

>I dream of you when I sleep, but my dreams are troubled – in them, I see you sinking beneath a great black ocean. They concern me greatly, these dreams.”
Good thing we didn't drink the goo, phew

>That sounds like an excellent idea. We can go, just the two of us
Time to find out in what horrifying ways old Saint Nicea has fallen to corruption

“You’re making this sound like a nice, relaxing holiday,” you point out, “But let’s be realistic, we both know that it won’t end that way.”

“It might!” Elle insists, an unusually stubborn tone entering her voice.

“It might, but it won’t. How about this, why don’t we make it a bet?” you continue, “If we go, and we DON’T have to go about digging up graves or crawling through some miserable catacombs, I’ll…”

Your voice trails off here as you try to think of some suitable consequence – nothing too annoying or inconvenient, naturally.

“I’ll graciously concede that you were correct,” you finish, rather weakly, “How does that sound?”

“Hmm…” Elle takes her time to think it over, “Fine, I’ll take that bet. Does that mean you were planning on coming with me?”

You shrug. “I suppose it does. It might be nice to get some time away, just the two of us,” you suggest, “I can’t imagine Ariel would be very interested, and it would be too much hassle to try and make arrangements with anyone else, so-”

“Great!” Elle leaps to her feet, “I’ll go and pack some things, then we can leave tomorrow morning!”

Well, you did want a distraction.

-

“What’s that?” Elle asks, leaning over to peer at the dark sketches filling up the notebook laid before you. You start to self-consciously close the notebook, then relent and show her your amateurish sketches. Elle takes the book and studies it for a long moment, her silent broken only by the faint clatter of the train’s engine. “Okay, I admit defeat,” she admits at last, “What is it?”

“A little engineering project, though I am in no way an engineer,” you explain, “I’ve been thinking about that awful black sludge at the bottom of the Demesne. What if it continued to fill up the place? It could bar our passage completely, and then we’d really be in trouble. With enough ropes and pulleys I’m sure you could work up something, but… well, I’ll admit, I’m out of my depths.”

“Hm,” Elle murmurs, “I can think of someone who might relish that challenge, but-”

“But I’d rather take my chances with the effluvium.”

Elle giggles, handing you back the sketchpad and leaning back to look out the window. The Silvera lands feel completely disconnected from everything you’ve known in recent days. The sun shines brightly, and the air carries a scent of flowers. Even the settlements you pass look clean and pretty, without the smoke of heavy industry to blacken the skies. You allow yourself to wonder what your life might have been like if you’d grown up here, instead of your ancestral lands. It’s hard to imagine what kind of man you’d become. A man like Cato, perhaps.

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen Cato. Maybe you should try and visit him while you’re here, especially if the church business ends up being more boring than you’re expecting.

[1]

>>6267364
>what difference is there?
The underlying nature. Instincts, urges, purposes beyond the superficial.

>>6267354
>You should go, if that’s what you want. I’ve got commitments here
I vote to continue the angsty brooding arc, and to sort out our sister's situation.

>>6267374

“Oh!” Elle gasps, sitting upright and pressing her face closer to the window, “That’s Amaryllis there, you see? And those flags… there must be something important going on, they only raise those flags during a festival. Though, I didn’t think there were any festivals for a month or so. I wonder what’s going on?”

“Trouble?” you suggest, smirking a little as an idea occurs to you, “You know, we haven’t agreed on what you’d do if I win our wager.”

“That’s fine, I wasn’t planning on losing,” she replies, meeting your smirk with a sweet smile.

-

It feels very strange to walk the streets of a city – something slightly smaller than a city, actually, from what Elle said – and see smiles on the faces of the people you see. It shouldn’t be strange, but it is. A festive atmosphere hangs over Amaryllis, from the bright and colourful flags fluttering from atop every building to the frequent bursts of music you hear on the wind. Faith is not a solemn affair here, it seems, especially now when they have something to celebrate.

A saint, the people whisper excitedly to one another, a saint is about to be proclaimed.

With so many pilgrims packed into the not-city, it’s hard to get rooms at a local hotel. Hard, but fortunately not impossible. With your bags safely stowed away, you return to the hotel lobby to plan out the rest of your day with Elle. There’s a bright excitement on the oracle’s face, and you occasionally have to check and make sure that she’s still listening to you.

“This is wonderful, isn’t it?” she remarks, halfway though your sentence, “Arriving here, just in time for a saint to be announced! Maybe this was meant to be, maybe THIS was the guidance I was hoping for.”

“I’ll have to ask the Godhead to consult on my holidays plans too, next time,” you drawl, “Though, I’d prefer it if things weren’t so busy around here. I don’t really want to elbow my way through a crowd just to get anywhere.”

“Oh, just try and enjoy something for once in your life,” Elle scolds, lightly kicking you under the table, “Where do you want to start? The main cathedral is supposedly built over Saint Nicea’s burial site, but there are a lot of other shrines dotted throughout the city.”

“I thought it wasn’t a city.”

“So we could always visit some of the first. I’m sure they’ll be a bit quieter,” she continues, tactfully pretending not to hear your snide remark, “Or if that’s all too religious for you, we could take a walk through the rest of the, um, town? Settlement?”

>I can handle a few crowds. Let’s go the main cathedral
>I could do with a break. Let’s find one of these lesser shrines
>I want to take in the mood here. Let’s take a walk together
>Other

>>6267393
>I can handle a few crowds. Let’s go the main cathedral
Well, at least Elle is cute. I wonder who the new saint is?

>>6267393
>I can handle a few crowds. Let’s go the main cathedral

>>6267393
>I can handle a few crowds. Let’s go the main cathedral
>Let's send a short letter to Cato. Who knows, maybe he's this supposed saint

You consider the options laid out before you for a moment, at least until your concentration is broken by a chorus of raised voices outside. You look up sharply, craning your head to peer out a window. From the shrill screams you heard you were expecting to see an explosion of riotous violence, the same outbursts that have been afflicting cities all across the land. Instead, you’re met with the tacky sight of a great puppet crafted in the shape of a hideous monster. Children scream and laugh as the run from it, the crude shape guided by a team of bearers underneath.

Elle’s soft laugh causes you to glance back around. “I feel a little bad for dragging you out here now,” she admits, “If it really bothers you that much-”

“I can handle a few crowds!” you insist, “In fact, I was just going to say that we should visit the main cathedral. It’s only going to get busier as time goes on.”

“True, true,” Elle nods, “Shall we?”

You allow her to guide you from the hotel, stepping into the crowds outside like a man braving a raging river. Your hotel is on the far outskirts of Amaryllis, which leaves you with a short walk. At least, it SHOULD be a short walk. In reality, you have to take a long, winding route through the dense streets to avoid the worst of the crowds. Perhaps it’s your natural paranoia, but it all seems a little… much. There’s a desperation to the celebrations that you don’t like, as if the pilgrims were trying to convince themselves of their happiness.

Or maybe you’re just reading too much into it.

To your surprise, the main cathedral seems quieter than the streets outside. It’s a grand building, far larger than the small settlement would otherwise demand, with windows of brilliantly coloured glass and rich golden sandstone steps outside. It’s here, once again, that you feel a pang of unease tug at you. The cathedral is surrounded by soldiers – men in rich ceremonial uniforms, but soldiers nonetheless. You saw a few more of the armed men on the way here, but never so many in one place.

“Hey,” you whisper to Elle, “Do you see-”

“The soldiers,” she finishes for you, “I see them. I suppose it’s only natural that the saint would be kept protected, but even so. This seems a little… much.”

“There’s something going on here,” you mutter, “We should find a telegraphy office. I want to send a message to Cato, see if he knows what’s going on. The hotel might have one, but…”

“Let’s see if they have one here,” Elle suggests, clutching to your arm and gently tugging you towards the cathedral, “It’ll be an awful waste to come all this way, only to turn back.”

That’s true. The idea of walking back through the bustling streets under this blazing sun is far from a welcome one. By contrast, the cool darkness of the cathedral invites you in.

No choice at all, really.

[1]

>>6267431

While you’re able to enter the cathedral without incident, it soon becomes clear that you won’t be allowed to move deeper into the building. Soldiers block each door leading from the atrium, their faces as closed and impassive as the doors they stand before. Aside from the soldiers, a few servants sweep away non-existent dust from the floors and an older woman lingers by the far wall. Your gaze is immediately drawn to her, purely from how out of place she seems. By contrast with the celebrants gathered outside, she seems dressed for mourning.

“Excuse me,” you begin, pitching your voice low as you approach the woman, “Are you… with the church?”

“I am,” she answers, “I’m afraid we can’t let you inside just yet, the preparations are still underway.”

“No, of course. I was just wondering if you’ve got a way to send a message to an acquaintance of mine. Master Cato Silvera,” you explain, hoping that dropping his name might open a few doors, “It’s a matter of some importance.”

It’s not, really, but she doesn’t need to know that.

The woman considers this before beckoning one of the servants over and whispering something in the young man’s ear. He hastens away, and the woman gives you a faint hint of a smile. “He will be here as soon as he can,” she tells you, “If you could just wait here, please.”

“He’s… here?” you remark, trying not to sound surprised and failing.

“He is here. Where else would he be?” the woman replies. She thinks for a moment more before nodding her head towards one of the sealed doors. The soldier stands aside at her gesture, allowing her to lead you into a discrete side room. The candles are a little brighter here, allowing you a better look at her. Her hair, which you originally took to be brown, is a dark red. It’s hard to guess her age – her face still looks youthful, but her eyes carry a heavy weight. “Forgive me, my name is Justine,” she adds, “I am but a humble assistant, but I will serve you however I can.”

“Have you met the new saint yet, Miss Justine?” Elle asks. You might be the only person in the world who could notice it, but you sense an edge of tension to her question.

“I have,” Justine confirms, “But only briefly. I worry for her.”

“You… worry for her?” you repeat.

Justine’s face grows very still. Her eyes sharpen, as if reevaluating you in some nameless way. Why such an innocent question would provoke such a strong reaction, you couldn’t say.

“She’s very young, and I fear that she will be under a great deal of pressure. A saint must be infallible, in the eyes of the masses,” Justine answers after a moment, bowing her head, “We will all do our best to support her, of course, but we can only do so much. The role of saint can be a very lonesome one.”

[2]

>>6267435
I swear if it's that cousin lmao

>>6267435

“Forgive me for only asking this now, but may I ask your names?” Justine asks, lowering her head once more.

“Isambard Pale,” you reply, “And this is Elspeth Legrasse.”

“Elle is fine, though,” Elle adds, pausing a little before adding, “You recognise my name, don’t you?”

“The Legrasse family is well known in these lands. It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. I realise now that you, better than most, will understand my words,” Justine offers Elle a faint hint of a smile, “This must be a very peculiar experience for you, coming here at a time like this.”

“Yes, well, I don’t mean to make this about me. I’m just here to pay my respects, just like all those pilgrims out there,” Elle insists, that hard edge creeping back into her voice. She glances briefly aside to you, letting out a silent sigh of relief when a knock at the door interrupts the conversation. Justine moves to the door, silently leaving as Cato enters.

“Isambard,” he begins, stiff and formal, “I was surprised to hear that you were in Amaryllis.”

“You know me,” you reply with a smirk, “Whenever there’s trouble, I’m never far away.”

Your words are a calculated gambit, one that pays off. Cato’s eyes widen slightly, his mouth forming a tight line. Just from his unspoken reaction, you see that your hunch was right – there IS trouble here.

“I didn’t realise that word had spread,” Cato mutters, “This could be very dangerous for us.”

“Please excuse him, Master Silvera,” Elle urges, “He was just joking. But… could it be that you’re worried about something?”

“I am indeed worried about something, Miss Legrasse. You’ll have to excuse me, I haven’t had much of a sense of humour these past few days. I’m here on business, you see,” he explains, stopping himself before he says anything more. He thinks for a long time, all the while struggling to meet your gaze. Eventually, he comes to some decision.

“There are some fairly strict limits to what I’m able to tell you, Isambard,” he continues, “By all rights, I should end this conversation here and big you a good day – unless, that is, you were prepared to offer your assistance.”

“My assistance with what?” you ask, giving Elle a quick, victorious glance. It’s starting to feel a lot like you just won your bet.

“I can’t answer that,” Cato replies, a grim, apologetic smile on his face, “Now, perhaps, you see the conundrum I’m in.”

It has to be something to do with the saint, that much is obvious. Something dangerous, too, or they wouldn’t have so many soldiers around. A plot on her life, perhaps?

>I think it’s best if we don’t get involved. Good luck with your business, Cato
>I’m willing to help out. Just tell me what you need me to do
>Other

>>6267457
>I’m willing to help out. Just tell me what you need me to do
>I also wanted to inquire if you know of the effluvium. Or is it something that only appeared recently.

>>6267457
>(sigh) It's about this saint, isn't it.
>I’m willing to help out. Just tell me what you need me to do
Also backing >>6267461
Showing the sketches might be worth it?

>>6267457
>I’m willing to help out. Just tell me what you need me to do
Cato's always been cool with us
Ask what's up with the effluvium in the Demesne too yea

>>6267457
>Let me guess, the new saint has locked herself in her room and refuses to come out, or has escaped entirely
>I’m willing to help out. Just tell me what you need me to do

>>6267465
+1

>>6267476
>Cato's always been cool with us
Apart from when he tried to murder our sister, and maybe us?

>>6267489
But we were on that statue excavation with him and not!Indiana Jones and his uncle and his hot glasses girl cousin. We're cool now

>>6267489
Speaking of Gratia, when will she finally approve of Elle to "I like you. You can come over to our manor and fuck my brother." levels?

>>6267489
Speaking of Gratia, when will she finally approve of Elle to "I like you. You can come over to our estate and fuck my brother anytime." levels?

>>6267489
>Apart from when he tried to murder our sister, and maybe us?
He never tried to murder us
In fact I'm pretty sure he failed to kill Gratia because he didn't want to get us too
As for trying to kill Gratia, well, she is kinda merged with a spirit of darkness and evil.

“I’m willing to help out,” you tell Cato, looking the young man in the eye, “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“Excellent. Isambard, you cannot imagine how glad I am to hear that,” Cato breathes, “For now, I ask only for your discretion. As you have no doubt realised by now, this whole operation has been kept to the highest degree of secrecy.”

“It has something to do with the saint, doesn’t it?” you ask, “Someone intends to kill her.”

“Isambard,” Cato replies, a pained look passing across his face, “If you are going to continue to guess, I would ask that you stop being so right. It makes it seem as if you know things you shouldn’t.”

“In fairness, Master Silvera, that wasn’t hard to guess,” Elle points out, “What else would warrant such secrecy?”

“It’s either that, or she’s locked herself in her room and refuses to come out,” you add, “I suspect the former.”

Cato spreads his hands wide, admitting defeat. “Very well, I concede the argument,” he sighs, “We received a warning about a threat to the saint’s life. Despite our best efforts, we’ve not been able to find out who sent us the letter. It came from a courier, who claimed to receive it from another courier and so on. The letter claimed that an exiled faction of the Tomoe intends to kill the saint.”

All three of you fall silent for a moment.

“An exiled faction of the Tomoe?” you repeat at last.

“So claimed the letter. I confess, I don’t know what it means either. I’ve tasked an assistant to looking into our old family records, to find anything they can on factions within the Tomoe,” Cato shakes his head, “There’s a part of me that fears this may all be a jest on their part, a ploy to waste our time and manpower while their true designs unfold elsewhere. Yet, we must take it seriously, despite the challenges it poses. Take the pilgrims, for example. With so many of the flocking to this city, there’s no way to monitor them all. If an assassin was hiding amongst them...”

“The proverbial needle in the haystack,” you finish for him.

“Exactly so,” Cato clears his throat, “I apologise, Miss Legrasse, but would you be so kind as to find Justine and bring her here. She’s been assisting us with some of the preparations.”

“Of course,” Elle says, getting up to leave, “I’ll be right back.”

Cato waits until she’s gone before speaking up again. “It’s good to see you again, Isambard,” he murmurs, “I’m… a little surprised that you can sit there, offering your assistance as if nothing has happened between us.”

“Ancient history now, Cato,” you remark, waving away his words, “You haven’t been in the Demesne lately, have you?”

“No, I haven’t,” Cato says quietly, “I feel as though that door has been closed to me.”

He says that with something very close to relief.

[1]

>>6267502

Silence, for only a brief moment.

“Why do you ask?” Cato wonders, “Forgive me, Isambard, but the Demesne would be the last thing on my mind at a time like this.”

“I’ve been searching, and I’ve found some strange… substance. A thick black fluid, something that behaves like no liquid should behave. Effluvium, I’ve taken to calling it. It’s a sickly, corrupt thing. It shouldn’t belong in a place like the Demesne,” you explain, “Have you ever heard of such a thing? Have you seen it with your own eyes?”

“No. I’ve neither seen nor heard of it,” he answers, shaking his head, “May I ask where you saw this?”

“All over the fifth level. You can’t miss it.”

Cato shakes his head again. “Then you have ventured deeper than I ever will,” the young man replies, “After the fourth layer. After… your father… I knew I could go no further. I’m sorry, Isambard, but I don’t know. Though… I’ve studied the Demesne somewhat, and this effluvium you describe does not appear in what few historical records exist. It may be that it is a recent development.”

Another long pause.

“Not a development for the better, I would assume,” Cato adds with a sigh.

He doesn’t know how right he really is.

>Okay, I’m going to take a pause here for today. The wagecage looms, but I’ll be continuing next Saturday
>Thank you for playing today!

>>6267511
Hm, so maybe the Stryx have brought this corruption with them, or provoked it somehow? Then again, perhaps it's not a bad thing entirely, even if it seems like it at first. Many people do want the Godhead to change in some way, to become more human. This is transformation of some sort. It just needs direction.


Thanks for running!

>>6267511
Thanks for running!

Dang no more broing it up with Cato in the Demesne I guess.

>>6267518
I don't know if it's worth the time or effort of taking samples of Effulvium all the way to that Phalaris skank. Could be an option?

>>6267529
What if we simply pull him to the fifth layer with us? We pulled Elle in through the barriers, we can do this again

Interesting. Seems like we need something to get rid of the Effluvium. Anyone up for a search for some Pale Fire?

Cast in the lurid glow of sunlight pouring through the stained glass windows, you idly listen to the muffled voices passing by the cathedral. You have a good view out into the street from the atrium, good enough for you to watch the constant flow of pilgrims passing by. The fact that a would-be assassin might be amongst them is not lost on you, but it would be a poor assassin to announce their presence so openly.

After a while, you grow tired of watching the crowds and look back to the colourful windows. Each one depicts a scene taken from the Nicean Prophecies, the figure of a bleeding woman appearing more than anything else. Cato and Elle are absent, locked in some private conversation, but you suddenly realise that you’re not alone. Justine, the churchwoman, has silently approached.

“Do you believe in all this stuff?” you ask nonchalantly, waving a hand up towards the stained glass windows before letting out a low laugh. “Stupid question,” you add, “Of course you do.”

“I do believe,” she answers coolly, taking no obvious offence at your crass question, “I believe that the Godhead will one day give way to a kind and caring God, and that God will lead the way to a new world – a world of gold, where men can live virtuous lives.”

“Very admirable,” you muse, “But sometimes I wonder. Would there be a place for people like me in this golden world?”

“There will be a place for everyone,” Justine offers you a faint hint of a smile, “Even someone like me.”

Just as you’re wondering what THAT was supposed to mean, you hear the sharp click of footsteps as a soldier hurries into the cathedral. He enters a small side room, emerging a moment later with Cato and Elle. With the messenger retreating back where he came from, Cato quickly moves over to join you. “Thank you for waiting, Isambard,” he begins, “I apologise for taking up so much of your companion’s time.”

“That’s fine,” you reply, glancing briefly aside as Justine backs away, “So long as you weren’t talking about me behind my back, that is.”

“No, of course not. I was asking for advice, actually,” Cato pauses for a moment, looking faintly embarrassed, “I was asking how I might comfort the saint, to reassure her. Though we have tried not to worry her unnecessarily, she clearly realises that not everything is well.”

“And she’s received a prophecy,” Elle adds in a low voice, “A beast with three faces approaches. One wears a familiar mask and speaks in a cacophonous voice, one hides like a wolf amongst the flock, and the last will come with the moonlight.”

“The second “face” in the prophecy likely confirms what I’ve suspected, that an assassin will try to hide amongst the pilgrims,” Cato grimaces, “The rest of it, however…”

[1/2]

>>6270112

“Let’s start with the first face, then,” you suggest, “One wears a familiar mask. That could mean someone already known to us. How much do you trust the soldiers around here?”

“I brought a number of them with me, men and women that I’ve known for many years. I’d trust them with my life. The rest of the soldiers are local men, enlisted to make up the numbers. They are all servants of the church, and the Silvera family, but I don’t know them personally,” Cato shakes his head, “Even so, they wouldn’t raise their hand against the saint!”

“What about the second part?” Elle asks quietly, “They speak in a cacophonous voice. That sounds like-”

“The Cacophony,” you finish for her.

“The Cacophony isn’t real. They were never real,” Cato points out, “At most, they were an evil rumour concocted by the Tomoe as a means to sow distrust.”

You shrug, leaving the possibility hanging in the air.

“In either case, I’ve asked an associate to contact the Choir and bring all the prophecies that might relate to the saint. That messenger just now was telling me that she’s arrived. She brought a significant number of papers with her, however,” a grimace passes across the young man’s face, “If you were willing to assist her, it might hasten her search.”

He’s putting a lot of faith in these old records. Considering how unreliable prophecies can become once the corruptive power of Calamity is involved, you don’t exactly share his faith.

“Is there anything else you need?” you ask.

“I was going to go out on patrol later, and you would be welcome to join me. If there was any trouble lurking beyond these walls, I’m sure that your keen senses would be able to sniff it out,” Cato suggests, “I can also see if the saint wishes to meet with you. It may do her good to speak with someone else, someone with a little more distance.”

“I would very much like to speak with her, Master Silvera,” Elle decides, “Please make the arrangements.”

There’s a rare note of command in her voice, enough that even Cato raises an eyebrow in surprise. Still, he nods in agreement.

>You’ll help search through the Choir’s records. There might be useful information hidden within the prophecies
>You’ll join Cato on a patrol of the city. Your habit for finding trouble might come in handy here
>You’ll meet the saint with Elle. Getting to know her a little better may lead to new revelations
>Other

>>6270113
>You’ll join Cato on a patrol of the city. Your habit for finding trouble might come in handy here
Maybe we shouldn’t meet her, the third face might be us

>>6270113
>>You’ll meet the saint with Elle. Getting to know her a little better may lead to new revelations


>>6270118
First face might be Cato, after all he's familiar and he professes faith while killing those who may yet be a threat, saying one thing yet doing another. That's more or less the problem with prophecies, they are vague and can be interpreted vastly differently depending on said vagueness and people trying to force them to fit.

>>6270118
+1

>>6270120
>First face might be Cato, after all he's familiar and he professes faith while killing those who may yet be a threat, saying one thing yet doing another.
Bro let it go

“I’ll join you on patrol. I’ve got an uncanny talent for finding trouble, and it might actually come in handy for once,” you tell Cato, “Did you have a route planned out?”

“I was thinking of taking a look around the outskirts,” he answers, nodding for you to follow him, “The outermost regions of the city have been neglected for a very long time. I hesitate to call them “slums” exactly, but they’re close. If our enemies were hiding out somewhere, I would expect they would make their lair in the outskirts.”

“I see,” you pause, “So why haven’t you swept them out before now?”

Cato has the good graces to look embarrassed. “My priority was securing the interior,” he replies, “Now that the main perimeter has been established, we can start looking further out.”

“Well, whatever,” you decide with a shrug, “Lead the way.”

-

It’s clear that there’s something on Cato’s mind, something he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about. That seems to be normal for him, which is hardly surprising considering all the secrets shared between you. This time, though, you have a good idea of what’s bothering him. “You’re still thinking about that familiar face, aren’t you?” you ask quietly, “Still wondering who it might be.”

“I am,” he admits, “The Godhead tells us exactly what we need to know, but something I wish these prophecies could be a little more… specific. A familiar face could be someone I saw once and still faintly remember, or it could be a sworn companion of many years.”

“It could even be me,” you remark, offering him an ironic smile.

“It could even be you,” Cato agrees, “Although I certainly hope it isn’t. Seeing you again, only for us to meet as enemies once more… that would be too cruel.”

It’s times like these when you sense something womanly about Cato. Maybe it’s “compassion” or “empathy” or something equally foolish. “What about Justine?” you suggest, “Do you know her well?”

“No, I’ve only recently met her. As I understand it, she’s served the church here for ten years or so. A reliable character, by all accounts. That’s why I was recommended to liaise with her,” he shakes his head, “Why her?”

“She said…” you pause, then correct yourself, “She implied that she’d led a, ah, less than virtuous life before arriving here.”

“Hm,” a frown darkens Cato’s face, “She hasn’t said anything like that to me. Try to talk with her some more, if the opportunity arises. Somehow, I feel as if she’ll be more open with you. House Silvera has the reputation for being… judgemental. But you-”

“House Pale is already as low as it gets,” you joke, “So there’s no shame in discussing such things with us. Is that what you meant to say?”

Cato frowns again, but he certainly doesn’t disagree with you. He just walks on in silence, directing his scrutiny outwards as you approach the edge of town.

[1]

>>6270131

Three figures are waiting for you at the edge of town, where the new and renovated buildings give way to older, crumbling homes. You certainly wouldn’t call the outskirts a slum, but you’ve seen places like Walpurgis or the Galsean compound in Portsmaw. This place might be shabby, but it still maintains a sense of stubborn pride.

“Captain Renoir,” Cato begins, his voice jolting you from your thoughts. He’s addressing a tall man, a man with the sort of rugged good looks that belong on an army recruitment poster. He wears the same dark brown uniform as his two companions, although the red cape slung over one shoulder marks him out as a senior officer. Ceremonial uniforms, you note, although the soldiers all looks professional enough. Lethal enough, if it comes to that.

“Master Silvera. We’ve scouted ahead a little,” Renoir replies, offering a salute, “The outskirts are a busy place at the moment. Just about every family is renting their rooms to the visiting pilgrims. Even if we knew who we were looking for, searching the area would be near enough impossible.”

“I feared as much,” Cato sighs, “Oh, this is Master Pale. He’s going to be assisting with the security efforts. Isambard, this is Captain Renoir. He’s with our house security. I’ve known him for several years, actually.”

“What he means is, he used to watch me practice my swordplay when he was just a little boy,” Renoir lets out a hard laugh, “I’d like to say that I taught him everything I know, but that would be a lie. He’s far surpassed me by now.”

“Good to meet you,” you tell him, before the older man can launch into any more nostalgia, “I assume these two are with you?”

“They are. Mira and Jericho, two of my best,” he nods to the other two soldiers, “They’re got brains and brawn, just what we need for a job like this.”

“Wish you hadn’t said that, Captain,” one of the soldiers – Mira – complains, “Now he’s going to be expecting us to do a good job!”

-

The chatter dies away as you enter the old town, the streets narrowing down and the buildings growing denser. Despite what Renoir said about the outskirts being busy, they don’t feel that way. Either the pilgrims have flocked into the centre of town, or they’re hiding indoors and staying quiet. Either way, the outskirts feel oddly deserted. With your hand never far from your holstered gun, you slowly creep through the winding streets.

“Wait,” you murmur, holding up a hand. The others pause, turning to look your way. Following some nameless instinct, you backtrack a few paces before taking a corner, squeezing down a particularly narrow path. It soon opens up into a makeshift shrine, faded tiles set into a mosaic depicting the bleeding woman from the Nicean Prophecies.

But this shrine has been defaced, paint smeared across the woman’s head in a clumsy suggestion of horns.

[2]

>>6270130
Let what go? I'm not angry about it, just pointing out that such prophecies can often play fast and loose with wording and symbology. That's rather the problem with them,

>>6270149
I don't care if Cato is sorry has a crush on us, I'm still mad he tried to assassinate our evil space-bird sister.

>>6270140

Nobody says anything for a long time as you stare up at the defaced mural. Signs of faith had been ever-present as you walked through the old town, ranging from simple shrines placed in the middle of junctions to humble offerings left in discrete places. Thinking back on them now, those little totems and tokens seem to suggest an older kind of faith, something that was ancient when the Godhead was young.

“Captain Renoir,” Cato says softly, “Please arrange for that to be cleaned off.”

“Of course,” Renoir replies, “I’ll instruct the priests to-”

The sudden crack of a rock hitting the ground interrupts him, and you all whirl around to see a young boy – barely a teenager, if that – ducking out of sight from the rooftops. “Go home!” he shrieks, cackling with glee as he runs off across the flat rooftops above you.

“After him!” Cato snaps. Renoir obeys without question, although his two lackeys are a little less confident. Even if you did catch the boy, they seem to think, what then?

-

Perhaps unsurprisingly, you quickly lose the boy’s trail. This is his territory, after all, and the swift young lad was able to leap across rooftops while you struggled through narrow streets. You can see relief on the faces of the two younger soldiers, while Cato frowns with frustration. “Forget about him,” you tell the silver haired young man, “He was just a boy. Not the hardened assassin that we’re looking for.”

“Regardless, Master Silvera, I think you should head back,” Renoir suggests, “For now, I would consider this place to be hostile territory.”

“Just a little bit longer,” Cato instructs, “Keep watch and follow me.”

Renoir obeys without complaint, stepping aside so Cato can lead the way. You’re not walking long before the narrow streets widen out into what seems to be a burial ground. Stepping out into the open space feels like a mixed blessing – while you’re glad to be free from the maze of streets, you feel frightfully exposed here. Who knows how many young children are hiding above you, just waiting to pelt you with rocks?

“Was this what you were looking for?” you ask Cato quietly. He doesn’t reply, his gaze slowly panning across the ancient mausoleums as if expecting a villain to leap out from behind one at any moment. Without much else to do, you take a slow wander through the burial ground. When something catches your eye, though, you pause and approach one of the mausoleums. The metal gate remains closed, but the ground nearby is littered with flakes of rust.

“Cato,” you call out, “Over here!”

“This door was opened, and recently,” Cato murmurs, kneeling down to examine the flakes of rust, “Good work, Isambard.”

[3/4]

>>6270162

Standing, Cato gives the metal gate a careful tug. It sticks a little, but opens without too much of a struggle. Much of the mausoleum is taken up by a single stone casket, as expected, but towards the rear the floor drops away to reveal a staircase leading down into the bowels of the earth. You stare down into the darkness for a while, dimly aware of the sound of footsteps as Renoir and his men approach.

“Most settlements like this are built on top of catacombs like these,” Cato remarks slowly, “The church archives might have some old maps, schematics showing how far they extend. Some of them might even reach all the way out to the cathedral itself.”

“Giving our assassins a perfect route in,” you finish for him, “Right under our damn feet.”

“Master Silvera, you need to go back and inform the others of this. You need to organise a thorough search of the cathedral grounds,” Renoir suggests, just barely stopping short of giving orders, “Let us handle the search here.”

“Captain Renoir-”

“Cato,” the older man interrupts, “Let us do our job.”

>He’s right, Cato. We need to go back and check on things at the cathedral
>I’ll stay and help with the search. I’m more useful here
>I’ve got a suggestion… (Write in)
>Other

>>6270164
>I’ll stay and help with the search. I’m more useful here
It's our special skill. We even have a shard of moonlight for the final "face" of the prophecy.

>>6270164
>He’s right, Cato. We need to go back and check on things at the cathedral
If there are maps like that in the archives, we can see where they'd emerge.

>>6270164
>I’ll stay and help with the search. I’m more useful here
I don't trust this Renoir very much in the light of the familiar face prophecy

>>6270164
>>I’ll stay and help with the search. I’m more useful here


>>6270171
Agreed

>>6270171
+1
Maybe whisper that to Cato when we're out of earshot of this guy

“I’ll stay and help with the search,” you decide, “Cato, you go back and help out at the cathedral. Find those maps, and make sure you know if our assassins can emerge right out from under our feet. I’m more useful here – you know, putting those keen senses of mine to good use.”

Renoir frowns at the idea. “I’m sorry, Master Pale, but I’d rather not send Master Silvera back alone,” he points out, “Not when we’ve already seen one sign of hostility.”

You say nothing to this, simply holding Renoir’s gaze. The silence stretches out for a long moment, but eventually he relents. “Jericho, you go with Master Silvera. Make sure he gets back to the cathedral in one piece,” he orders, “That is, if Master Pale still insists on joining us?”

“Master Pale does,” you answer in a cold tone, “I never pass up a chance to go crawling through some dark catacombs.”

“You know, that doesn’t surprise me one bit,” Mira mutters to herself.

“Isambard-” Cato protests, but you take his arm before he can say anything more than that. He falls silent as you lead him a few paces away, moving out of earshot from the others.

“Listen, trust me on this one,” you whisper, “I know you trust the Captain, but I’m not sure that I do. I’m not saying that he’s the familiar face that we’re looking for, but he COULD be.”

Cato scowls.

“Look at it this way,” you press, “I’m trying to rule him out, take his name off the list. How about that?”

With a sigh, Cato shakes his head. “It’s true that I can’t judge Captain Renoir with unbiased eyes,” he says softly, “I just hope that your suspicious prove false.”

-

Renoir and Mira light up voltaic lamps as they prepare to descend down the stairs, but you take out your shard of moonlight. As you do, though, you feel a faint chill run through you. The words of the prophecy come echoing through your mind – the third face, the third assassin, will come with the moonlight. It’s as vague as prophecies always are, but somehow it feels like the words were meant for you.

The strange talisman draws curious eyes from the pair of soldiers, and you casually show it to them – conveniently allowing the cold light to wash over their faces. There’s no change, no terrible truth revealed as their masks and glamours fall away. They’re two normal soldiers, the same as they always were.

“Is this a bad time to mention that I don’t like tight spaces?” Mira remarks, an odd lilt in her wavering voice as she tries to make light of the situation.

“You seemed fine with the streets up there,” you point out, jerking a thumb back towards the surface.

“Yeah, because I could see the sky,” she complains, “Down here, it’s like being buried alive.”

[1]

>>6270184

Renoir hushes her, giving you both a hard scowl. He seems harsher now that Cato is absent, a layer of warmth stripped away to reveal a core as hard as iron. Holding your tongue, you continue down the steps until they level out. You examine the walls, almost expecting to see the white stone of the Demesne, but your eyes are met with coarse grey granite instead. You’re probably not deep enough to be in the Demesne – not yet, at least.

The chamber you’ve descended into is lined with alcoves, each one taken up by a heavy stone casket. Wiping away the dust and cobwebs, you see the same faded insignia carved into each casket. Some kind of family emblem, you assume, although not much of it remains legible. But it’s clear that the dead weren’t the only ones sleeping here – a few dirty bedrolls are laid out on the floor, while a discarded satchel contains a dry heel of bread.

“I count six bedrolls, boss,” Mira whispers, “I thought we were only looking for three targets?”

“They could be hiding amongst a group. Don’t let down your guard,” Renoir warns, “This way, the tunnel goes further in.”

“That leads back into the city,” you point out, “Back towards the cathedral.”

Renoir seems to hesitate. “Are you sure?” he asks after a moment.

“I’ve got a pretty good sense of direction, you know.”

Mira shrugs, not committing to doubt or support. With a sharp jerk of his hand, Renoir orders you both to follow close behind him as he stalks into the tunnels. They’re especially narrow here, so tight that you have to walk one after the other, and you can barely walk a dozen paces before turning another corner. Each junction you pass spirals off into yet more branching tunnels, and it isn’t long before your head is spinning. Even at its worst, the Demesne isn’t this bad – at least the Demesne has enough light for you to see the path ahead. Here, even the bright white voltaic lights seem to be swallowed up without effect.

Renoir stops suddenly, holding up a clenched fist as he tilts his head to listen. You follow suit, straining your ears to heard what might be a faint scratching sound from up ahead. Possibly rats. Possibly the kind of rats that walk on two legs.

Without warning, Renoir breaks into a sudden sprint forwards. Mira lets out a cry of alarm and starts to hurry after him, pushing past you and running towards the next junction. Cursing, you start to chase after her when something slams into you from the side, knocking both you and Mira to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Her light immediately goes dark as it hits the ground and shatters, plunging you all into near-total darkness. Only your moonlight shard keeps the blackness from becoming absolute, but for once the light only serves to obscure the truth – the mad dance of shadows that it creates reveals nothing.

[2]

>>6270194

Something, a writhing human figure, pulls back from you and lurches upright before fleeing down the tunnel. Staggering to your feet, you give chase without a second thought. Following the echoing clatter of footsteps as you run, you feel a sudden sense of disorientation wash over you. This whole situation seems vaguely familiar, as if you’ve lived these moments before – or, perhaps, will experience them again at some unknown point in the future.

It occurs to you, then, that the footsteps have fallen silent. Either your quarry has fled so far that he’s out of earshot, or he’s stopped moving. Slowing your own pace, you creep forwards and listen for any signs of life – whether they come from your unseen attacker, or from your lost companions. After a long, slow stalk, you eventually hear the sound of rasping breaths. Following the sound to its source, you soon find a bedraggled man cowering against the wall.

Grabbing the man by the scruff of his collar, you drag him upright and shove him back against the wall. An unwashed man with a straggly beard, he looks more like a lunatic hermit than an assassin, but you know that that proves nothing. Could he be the wolf that moves amongst the flock?

One way or another, you’re going to have to find out.

-

Only in retrospect do you realise that you should have marked your path somehow, leaving yourself directions to follow back to the starting catacomb. Something to remember for the next time you get stuck in a shitty situation like this. As it is, you have only your instincts to guide you back along your path. You trust your fate to them, and they don’t disappoint.

Dragging the shabbily dressed man into the crypt, you let him drop to the floor and crouch down beside him. “We’re going to have a little talk, you and I,” you tell him coldly, “You can start by telling us what you’re doing down here.”

“By all means,” a hard voice agrees, “Tell us.”

You turn to see Renoir standing in the doorway, his revolver drawn and cocked – not exactly aimed at you, not exactly aimed at your captive. His uniform looks dusty and creased, while his face is marked by a smear of blood. You meet his gaze, idly wondering how to draw your own gun without his notice. Before you can put your plan into action, he carefully lowers the hammer on his weapon and holsters it.

“Captain Renoir,” you say quietly, “Where’s Mira?”

“I was hoping she’d be with you,” he replies, shaking his head, “We can’t leave her behind. I can watch the suspect if you were able to search for her. Or you can stay, and I’ll search. Either way, I’m wary of splitting up again.”

You nod slowly. Either way, you’d be letting Renoir out of your sight.

>You’ll watch over the prison, he can search for Mira
>You’re better at searching. Leave the prisoner with Renoir
>You shouldn’t split up. Search together, and bring the prisoner with you
>Other

>>6270198
>You shouldn’t split up. Search together, and bring the prisoner with you
Most sus.

>>6270198
>You’re better at searching. Leave the prisoner with Renoir
Not sure we'd get anything out of him
God damn spelunking man
I hate caves now

>>6270198
>You shouldn’t split up. Search together, and bring the prisoner with you

>>6270198
>You shouldn’t split up. Search together, and bring the prisoner with you

“With all due respect, Captain Renoir, I think splitting up should be the last thing we do,” you argue, “It’s better for everyone if we stick together and search for Mira that way. We can take the prisoner with us, if that’s what it takes.”

Renoir grimaces a little, although he doesn’t shoot your suggestion down straight away. “He wasn’t the only one out there, you know. He has friends,” the soldier points out, “We’d be an easy target for an ambush if we’re concentrating on keeping him under control.”

“That’s fine. They can ambush us if they want,” you reply with a shrug, “They’ll all die.”

“You’ve got the wrong idea…” the bedraggled man mumbles, “I don’t even know who you are. I’m not… I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t immediately trust you,” Renoir mutters, giving the bearded man a particularly sour frown, “Very well, Master Pale. We’ll do it your way. I’ll confess, there’s a part of me that’s very glad of that.”

-

You try to coax a few answers out of the unwashed man as you creep through the tunnels, but he’s too scared – or too smart – to tell you much. From what little he does say, you’re able to put together a rough picture. He claims to be a common pilgrim, and a particularly penniless one at that. Together with his little group, they were able to gather enough money to make the journey to Amaryllis but that was it. With no spare cash for lodgings, they broke into the catacombs purely for somewhere to sleep. The group panicked when you arrived, fearing arrest or worse. He might have pushed you over, purely by accident, and another member of his group may have inadvertently given Renoir a bloody nose. Such things can happen in the dark.

His story makes sense on the surface, but something about his words feels particularly hollow to you. They feel like words read from a script, something learned by rote memorisation. If you found another member of his group, you suspect that he would tell you the exact same story – identical, even down to the word. It might take a serious interrogation to prise the truth out of him, and even then-

“Wait,” the unwashed man hisses, “What was that?”

You all stop and listen, straining your ears for a moment. When you don’t hear anything, Renoir cups his hands over his mouth and calls out Mira’s name. His booming voice echoes down the tunnel, but something else echoes back to you. Just as you’re listening for the answer, the pilgrim takes his chance to strike. Twisting out of your slackening grip, he spins on his heel and sprints out into the darkness. You start to follow before stopping yourself with a snarled curse. Chasing ghosts in the darkness is how you all got separated in the first place. You’re in no hurry to repeat the process.

“The next time we take a prisoner, I’m going to break their leg so they can’t run,” Renoir mutters.

No arguments there.

[1]

>>6270209

A sullen mood hangs over the pair of you as you trudge through the tunnels, occasionally pausing to call out Mira’s name. You’re definitely getting a response, her echoing voice growing louder and clearer with each shout. When you finally catch up with her, the moment is so anticlimactic that it almost feels unreal. You turn one corner and practically walk straight into the young woman. Her mouth drops open in a silent gasp of surprise, her eyes widening with disbelief.

“Boss?” she squeaks, “And, um, Master Pale?”

“Yes, that’s us, and you’re Mira,” you reply, “Now that we all know who we are, how about we get out of here?”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Mira agrees, eagerly nodding her head.

-

None of you relaxes even a little bit until you reach the top of the stairs and see sunlight again. It’s only then, as you let your guard down a little, that you notice the filthy, stained satchel that Mira has slung over one shoulder. “What’s with the bag?” you ask, gesturing to it.

She glances down as if surprised to see the bag, then lets out a small laugh. “I don’t know, actually. I tripped over it in the dark. When I got up, I took it with me. I mean, I didn’t even think about it,” she answers, taking it off her shoulder and setting it down. Fumbling with the clasps for a moment, she opens it and empties out the contents. Jingling purses, heavy gold jewellery and gilded holy icons spill out onto the dry grass, all gleaming sensuously in the fading sunlight.

“Well, look at that,” Renoir remarks, “Penniless pilgrims my ass.”

>I’m going to pause here for today. I’ll be continuing this tomorrow, same kind of starting time
>Thank you for playing today!

>>6270222
Thanks for running!

Dang we can't even find the assassins we're looking for because of all these thieves in the catacombs. Need a brute squad to clear them out.

>>6270227
How will all the others react to this twist?
>sorry we couldn't find your saint's assassin in the catacombs
>we were busy running into all your city's thieves infesting the place
>(dumps gold and riches and loot onto the table)
>unless riches enough to hire an assassin willing to kill a saint counts?

>>6270112
>“A beast with three faces approaches. One wears a familiar mask and speaks in a cacophonous voice, one hides like a wolf amongst the flock, and the last will come with the moonlight.”
I don't think the beast as a whole is an assassin.

The familiar face could introduce doubt.
The wolf presents physical danger, said assassin
While the last is the stryx, a terrible foe lying in wait

All this combined to make the saint lose faith, giving up the fight, rather than her life specifically.

You always had the impression that dinner amongst a gaggle of priests and holy men would be dull, austere food served in a pious silence. Maybe that’s true in some places, but certainly not here. Joining Cato and his companions for dinner, you’re served duck with a rich, complex sauce. There’s wine too, although nobody is foolish enough to overindulge. Hunting assassins is bad enough without adding a hangover into the mix.

“I found some old maps of the catacombs,” Cato says, leaning across the table and lowering his voice, “Originally they spread across the whole settlement, including the cathedral itself. Some time ago, though, the priests here built walls to separate the cathedral catacombs from the rest of the network. Concerns about thieves, I suppose.”

“I feel like I’m stating the obvious here, but walls can be broken down,” you point out.

“Of course. We still have to consider this as a potential weakness. Fortunately, there’s only a single entrance that opens out into the cathedral, and I’ve ordered it to be sealed off,” the young man nods, “We’ve blocked off the entrance with some old furniture. It won’t deter a truly determined attacker, but it means they won’t be able to enter quickly or quietly.”

“Good enough.”

“What about…” Cato lowers his voice, “Renoir?”

You pause for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know. He’s neither confirmed his guilt nor proven his innocence.”

Cato sighs, his face darkening.

“What about you?” you ask, quickly changing the subject, “Has your associate found any useful leads in the prophecies?”

A strange look passes across Cato’s face, mingling amusement and pain, as he glances away from you. “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” he suggests, nodding over to the entrance to the dining room. You follow his gaze, your eyes widening with disbelief when you see who he was talking about.”

“Cato,” you say slowly, “Please correct me if I’ve got the wrong idea, but I thought this whole operations was supposed to be secret, something to be handled with discretion.”

“It was,” he replies with a wince, “I mean, it is.”

“Then why exactly is MISTY here?” you hiss.

“A secret is best shared between as few people as possible. Misty happened to be present when we learned about the plot on the saint’s life, and she has access to the Choir’s records. I didn’t want to get anyone else involved, so-” Cato pauses, falling silent as he notices Misty approach your table with a spring in her step.

“Hello boys,” Misty begins, helping herself to a seat at your table, “You weren’t talking about me, were you?”

“I was just telling Isambard about your good work,” Cato answers hastily, “We appreciate the hard work.”

“Oh, you know me,” Misty remarks with a wink, “Duty above all else.”

[1/2]

>>6270590

“Did you learn anything useful?” Cato asks, “What about that… other thing I asked about?”

“The prophecy, you mean? The familiar face one?” Misty replies, remembering to lower her voice at the last moment, “I’ve had a few thoughts, and I think I’ve got a theory. I think you’re too focussed on the first part, you’re missing the second. Your assassin “speaks with a cacophonous voice”. Well, what do we know about the Cacophony?”

“That they don’t exist?” the young man suggests.

“Okay, Mister No Fun Allowed,” Misty pouts, “Pretend for a minute that they DID exist. How did they operate? They infiltrated the church and the Choir, getting into positions of influence so they could spread their lies and falsehoods. They worked for years and years before they were found out. So, I think you’re looking for someone like that.”

Silence falls. “Justine?” you suggest in a whisper.

Misty shrugs, but says nothing. “I asked a few discrete questions while I was searching for those catacomb maps,” Cato murmurs, “Nobody knows about Justine’s life before joining the church. Who she was before coming here, what kind of life she’s led. She’s a very private person, by all accounts.”

That doesn’t necessarily prove her guilt, but it certainly doesn’t help. In the absence of any solid information, speculation will soon fill the void. The silence returns, growing thick and heavy as you consider the situation.

“Well, I don’t have a solid answer for you yet, but we can always talk it over a little more after dinner,” Misty suggests after a while, trying to shrug off the whole conversation, “But I’m warning you now, I could talk for hours about the prophecies I read. They’re pretty interesting, actually! It’s like all these long-dead oracles were gossiping about each other.”

No wonder she was willing to work so hard. Before you can say anything more, you notice Elle entering the dining room. She approaches as you give her a wave, a weary smile forming on her face. “Isambard, hello. I’m glad to see you’re okay,” she begins, “I was just going to head back to the hotel. I’m awfully tired.”

She looks like it, although you’re tactful enough not to say that aloud.

“Good idea,” Misty chirps, “You look like it.”

“Did you get a chance to meet the saint?” you ask, quickly changing the subject once more.

“I did,” Elle answers, her voice flat and low, “Master Silvera. Miss Silvera-Quail. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

Strange.

>It’s odd for Elle to be so curt. You should catch up with her and see what’s wrong
>You should take some time to discuss the prophecies, and gossip, with Misty
>Justine is a possible suspect. You should try and learn more about her
>You’ve got plans… (Write in)
>Other

>>6270591
>Justine is a possible suspect. You should try and learn more about her
Lmao Misty

>>6270591
>Clarify how confident they are about the prophecy being assassins in the first place. There's more than one way to get a saint to quit. Maybe each head is a different form.
>>It’s odd for Elle to be so curt. You should catch up with her and see what’s wrong

>>6270461
That makes a lot of sense. Good thinking, anon!

>>6270590
>freckles and glasses
Mira 2 cute.

>>6270591
>>6270597 +1

You watch with wide, surprised eyes as Elle turns and marches away from the dining room table. It’s not like her to be so curt, so abrupt, especially not in polite company like this. There’s something wrong, something beyond the admittedly very long list of things that are already very wrong. Something to do with the saint, you suspect. You ought to catch up and check on her, but there’s one little thing you need to do first.

“Misty, since you’ve discovered the joys of research, I want you to look into something for me,” you begin, “We’ve been assuming that-”

“Oh hold on, let me get a pen,” Misty interrupts, “And let me tell you about my hourly rates…”

“Cousin,” Cato warns, fixing her with a cold scowl.

“Cato, please. I was just kidding. I’m not the sort of girl who charges by the hour,” Misty pauses, “Wait, that wasn’t supposed to sound so-”

“Focus, please,” you plead. Misty covers up a giggle, but waves for you to continue. “We’ve been assuming that assassins are coming after the saint, but how certain are we about that?” you explain through gritted teeth, “Perhaps they just want her to fail, one way or another.”

A thoughtful look passes across Cato’s face as he considers this possibility. “That’s a good point,” he admits, “Misty, we sent you a copy of the original warning. Do you have it?”

Misty opens her handbag and pulls out a crumpled sheet of paper. “They seek the saint’s life,” she read aloud, “That doesn’t actually say they plan to kill her, technically speaking.”

“Talk it over, see what you can find out,” you urge, “I’ve got something to take care of.”

“Someone to take care of?” Misty teases, but you’re already hurrying away before you can deliver a suitably devastating retort.

-

You catch up with Elle in the streets outside the cathedral. Even at this late hour, with the sun’s light fading around you, the streets are far from empty. Weaving your way around a group of swaying drunkards, you reach out and touch her arm. She flinches, then turn to you with a stilted smile. “Isambard?” the oracle asks, “What’s wrong?”

“I feel like I should be the one asking you that question,” you reply, “Are you okay? It’s not like you to be so… short.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Really, I’m fine,” she insists, “You shouldn’t worry about me. You’ve got more important things to worry about.”

“They can wait until later. Allow me to be selfish, just this once.”

Elle signs, her smile softening into something more natural. “I suppose it can’t hurt to talk about it,” she murmurs, “But not here. Somewhere with a little more privacy, please.”

Linking her arm with yours, she allows you to guide her through the city streets until you arrive back at your hotel. A few of the lingering pilgrims follow you with their eyes as you head upstairs together, but you pay them no mind. They can think what they like.

[1]

>>6270613

The lock closes with a heavy click, the sound finally announcing the peace and quiet that you’ve been craving for hours. The sounds of the revelry outside are still present, but hushed and muted. That’s good enough for you. You gesture to one of the waiting armchairs, then sit down opposite Elle. She says nothing for a few moments, struggling to find the right words, the right place to begin. “The saint…” she says at last, “I know her. Knew her, rather, from when I was younger.”

“Oh,” you reply, immediately wincing at your feeble response.

“What I mean is… oh, this is so frustrating!” Elle groans, “When I was born, there were certain… signs and omens. Good omens, actually. My parents really thought I had the potential to be a saint myself. All the signs were there. Except… I blew it. You know what Justine said – a saint has to be beyond reproach, above every little human flaw and foible. I couldn’t do it.”

“So they found someone else.”

“They “reinterpreted the omens”, actually,” Elle says, quoting the words with a soft hiss of anger. Abruptly, she stands up and walks across to the window. Leaning heavily against the wall, she stares out at the crowds celebrating below. “I never actually wanted to be a saint, you know,” she continues, “But seeing that girl living what could have been my life, I just felt so-”

She cuts herself short, falling into a fitful silence. You cautiously approach, standing beside her by the window. This close, you can feel the slight tremor of her body through the thin lace of her gown.

“Have you ever been so confused about something that you don’t even know if it’s good or bad?” she asks softly.

“I have,” you reply, “It feels as if your stomach is churning. You almost want to shout out, to push your fingers into your eyes, anything to get away from the feeling. Even pain would be better – at least pain is understandable.”

Elle turns around, her eyes widening as if surprised at how close you are. “That’s it,” she whispers, “I feel as if the last threads connecting me to my family, to my old life, have finally been severed. Should I feel gladdened by this, or should I be mourning what I’ve lost? I feel like such a fool. Nothing’s really changed, not really, yet I feel as if I’ve been cast adrift.”

Her words trail off here as she tilts her head up to meet your eyes. Though it could only last a few seconds, the moment seems to draw out for an eternity. You can sense the desperate yearning within her, radiating from her heart like iron fresh from the forge.

>This is the moment. Kiss her
>This isn’t right. Step back
>Other

>>6270633
>This is the moment. Kiss her
eh, she's been growing on me. Minus points for the thing with Gloria, but she banked a lot of positives

>>6270633
Oh. OH.
Elle is the actual saint. “They seek the saint’s life” is a prophecy about her replacement.

Ooor maybe it's about Elle seeking the life denied to her. One of the two.

>This is the moment. Kiss her
I hope we're good at sensing consent

>>6270633
>This isn’t right. Step back.
Sorry Elle, I see you as more of a friend really

>>6270633
>This is the moment. Kiss her

>>6270633
>This isn’t right. Step back

>>6270633
>This isn’t right. Step back.
Elle's great, but there's no time for love right now! Why not?

>Other
>>Time to blurt out a sudden realization: WE ARE THE DANGER.

“A beast with three faces approaches. One wears a familiar mask and speaks in a cacophonous voice, one hides like a wolf amongst the flock, and the last will come with the moonlight.”

Elle is the familiar mask with a cacophonous voice: an oracle going against Choir consensus.

Cato is a wolf amongst the flock, being a Church assassin.

Isambard came with moonlight.

>>6270648
I think you're right, and we're her to reveal this and ruin the false saint's life. Maybe kill her if she's Tomoe or Stryx or something.

>>6270633
>This is the moment. Kiss her
This is it lads. And the best thing is she isn't first girl winning because that'd be Juno. We can still invite Juno to have "fun" with Elle, right? They're friends from the Choir; it's perfectly okay, right?

Took a break to get something to eat, but I see four votes for kissing and three for stepping back. I'd tag each vote, but the system thinks I'm spam. Doesn't matter, I'm pretty confident with my basic math.

Writing now, please wait warmly

Reaching out, you place a hand on Elle’s back and pull her close against your body. She offers no resistance, her body smoothly following your lead even as you tip your head down and brush your lips against hers. The warmth of her body seems that much greater up close, and she returns the kiss with a feverish intensity. Even so, there’s a part of your mind, your heart and soul, that remains cold and still. You can feel her yearning, but so too can you feel her vulnerability. Your life has been a destructive whirlpool from the moment you first met, and she’s finally succumbed to its pull.

“Isambard?” Elle whispers as you draw back from her, “What’s wrong?”

“I’m just…” you hesitate, even as her hands stroke gently across your chest. She’s not quite clinging to you, but she’s close. “I’m not sure if we should be doing this,” you admit after a moment, “Here, of all places.”

“I really don’t think the Godhead cares what we do,” she replies, a flicker of pain darting across her face for a moment, “And neither of us knows what tomorrow might bring. So… let’s not let this moment go to waste, okay?”

You nod, your glib tongue suddenly failing you. Taking her hands, you guide Elle across towards the bed and allow her to sit. She crawls back and lies against the stack of pillows, then sits sharply back upright and starts to fumble clumsily at her shoes. “Sorry. I feel awfully silly wearing shoes in bed,” she remarks with a shaky laugh, “I really have no idea what I’m doing, do I?”

“It’s not as if I know any better,” you admit.

“Oh well,” Elle says, forcing a bright smile, “They say that the best way to learn is by doing.”

-

Later, as you’re lying in bed, you feel Elle stir against you. With one sluggish arm, she brushes back a sheet of hair and looks up. She wears a warm smile, but this one is unlike any you’ve ever seen. The entire shape of her face seems to have changed in some subtle way. Before, it had been the face of a girl. Now, she has the face of a woman. And what of you? How has your face changed?

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” Elle murmurs, “I’ve spent so long, not even admitting it to myself. I always thought there would be someone else. Ariel, perhaps. You share so many secrets with her. Or Juno, or...”

You say nothing, simply allowing your hand to stroke across her bare back. She crawls forwards, leaning closer to whisper into your ear.

“But even if our paths may one day diverge, I’m happy that it was me,” she breathes, “I’ll walk by your side for as long as I can, and keep these memories close if we should ever be parted.”

That won’t happen, you think to yourself.

“Shh,” she whispers, as if sensing your thoughts, “Neither of us knows what tomorrow may bring, remember?”

[1]

>>6270695

You wish you could say that you woke feeling like a changed man, like a great weight had been lifted from your shoulders, but that would be a lie. Everything has changed, but somehow nothing has changed. The more you think about it, the more your night together starts to seem like an act of desperation – two lost souls clinging to each other amidst a great storm, two injured dogs licking each others wounds.

Or maybe you’re just a heartless wretch, a real bastard, to be thinking like that at a time like this.

Leaving Elle to sleep, you quietly dress and lean out the open window. For once, you feel as if you’re seeing the city in a moment of calm. The streets outside are empty, the celebrations finally having ceased. Gazing out across the city, you allow your mind to wander and indulge your most morbid thoughts. What if you’re ALL the beast of the saint’s prophecy? Elle, the familiar face drawn from a forgotten past. Cato, the killer hiding behind a mask of virtue as he moves through the flock. And you, the one who brings moonlight wherever he goes. Where there is a moon, there could also be an eclipse – and all who behold that terrible light are fated to die.

You jolt back to reality, the strange thought slipping away like water running through your fingers. It seems to have come from some place outside of yourself, a waking dream of sorts. Even after the thought has faded, it leaves a chill in your heart. Stepping back and closing the window, you quickly check on Elle. She sleeps soundly, a contented smile fixed on her peaceful face.

That feeling of unease stays with you as you move through the hotel room. Just as you’re sitting at the small dining table, you notice something that gives new cause to your nameless fear – a neat envelope sits on the table, carefully propped up against a drinking glass. With an unsteady hand, you reach out and take the envelope. The heavy click of the lock repeats in your memory, over and over again. The door was locked, yet someone – something – got inside to leave you this letter.

Though your first, spiteful instinct tells you to burn it, to destroy the letter without even so much as opening the envelope, your rational thoughts win out. It may yet be important.

It’s not a long letter, barely a note really, but you take a long time to read and reread each word.

“The saint must die
Men must see that their gods and saints will not protect them
Only then can they learn to stand on their own two feet.”

This note could have been sent to anyone, but they left it for you. They could have cut your throat while you slept, but they chose to leave a letter instead.

They’re sending you a message.

>Bit of an early finish, but I’m going to pause here for today. Next session will be next week, starting Saturday
>Thank you for playing today!

>>6270714
>Bit of an early finish, but I’m going to pause here for today.
I guess you could say you ended with a bang

Thanks for running!

>>6270714
Thanks for running!

Agghghgh Elle won fuck
Maybe it's just a one night fling, right guys? Guys?

>>6270714
Thanks for running!
I wish we could have went with the Ariel route, but I suppose Elle's still fun. As amusing as it'd be for a moment, at least it wasn't Gratia.

>>6270746
>Ariel route
/qst/ wasn't ready for femboy supremacy.

>Gratia
Demonic albino wincest will have its day!

>>6270738
Anon... It's over. No way will we vote to be a cad.

>>6270750
Agreed. Harem autism ruins quests

>>6270715
goddamn it carlos

>>6270695
Can’t believe that I missed the relationship vote! We route-locked to Elle now?

Poor best girl Juno…wasn’t meant to be.

>>6270714
>Only then can they learn to stand on their own two feet.”

Is it wrong that I kinda agree with this sentiment

>>6270832
>Is it wrong that I kinda agree with this sentiment
look dude, I'm all for self-improvement, but you don't need to kill someone for it.

....err, rpg exp systems aside.

Dammit, I was really holding out hope for Juno...

Oh well, just have to get Elle killed and then we can be free again.

>>6270896
If Elle dies due to screwy player decisions, I'll double down on Gratia.

>>6270885
"Killing" may be more metaphorical here, like Nietzsche "killing God." We just need to prove them fallible.

The mysterious letter sits in your pocket like a poisoned dagger, something to be drawn at the opportune moment. You’ve been waiting for an opportunity to show it to Cato in private, but his duties have kept him too busy for that. You haven’t shown it to Elle at all, though you’re not sure why. To avoid worrying her, perhaps. It’s strange, how your perception of her has changed overnight.

Touching a hand to your pocket, as if reminding yourself that the letter is still there, you take a long look around the grand cathedral. A high dais has been set up on the far end of the cavernous room, piled with so many cushions that it looks more like a raised bed surrounded by gauzy curtains. Later today, when the sun reaches its peak, Saint Lucille will ascend that platform and address the waiting crowds.

Until then, she sits amidst a surging retinue of servants attending to her every need. The first time you saw her, you were struck by how much she reminded you of Elle. If not for her hair, arrow straight instead of wavy, you might have taken them for sisters. That aside, she looks like you suppose a saint ought to. Her face is usually set in a serious, solemn mask, apart from a few brief moments – when she thinks that nobody is looking – when traces of a smug smile tug at her mouth. Perhaps it’s only natural to be smug when you have so many servants waiting on you.

The main doors creak as Captain Renoir’s minions, Mira and Jericho, hurry inside with armloads of junk. You approach as they set them down with matching groans, idly sifting through the haul. You see bunches of flowers, already starting to wilt in the remorseless heat, as well as pieces of cheap costume jewellery. Most of them depict the same thing – a blazing sun with a stern, serene face. “What’s all this?” you ask, waving a hand at the pile.

“Offerings. Gifts for the saint,” Mira shrugs, “We tried telling people not to bring anything, but they didn’t listen to me. We’ve been standing out there all morning, handling the stuff. I tell you, every time some pilgrim approaches me and sticks his hand in my pocket, I piss myself a little. I keep expecting to see them pull a gun on us.”

“It’s a disaster just waiting to happen,” Jericho adds glumly, “And to think, we were excited when Captain Renoir picked us for this job. How foolish…”

“Why a sun, though?” you wonder, holding up a particularly gaudy medallion.

Mira coughs, covering up a dirty laugh. “You haven’t been reading your scripture, have you? It’s okay, me neither,” she shakes her head, “Apparently the prophecies compare the coming God to a blazing sun. So it’s like a holy symbol, you know?”

“I’m already sick of the sight of it,” Jericho mutters to himself, glancing over his shoulder to make sure there aren’t any priests listening in.

[1/3]

>>6273807

Jericho seems on the verge of saying something more, but abruptly bites back his words. A moment later you realise why he silenced himself, as Justine brushes past you to examine the pile of trinkets. She examines a few before her slender fingers brush over a drooping flower, the sight of the plant causing her eyes to sharpen.

“These are Mourning Lilies. A symbol of death,” she announces, her voice tight and low, “Who brought these?”

“I don’t… just a guy, you know?” Mira stammers, “A pilgrim. I’ve seen so many that I wasn’t even paying attention.”

For a moment, you wonder if Justine might actually slap the younger woman across the face. She certainly seems to be considering it, fixing the soldier with a hard glare. It’s only when her companion speaks up that the tension starts to fade. “I don’t recall his face, but I remember what he was wearing. A white prayer shawl, with black script on it,” Jericho says, “I remember trying to read what it said, but the letters were too small.”

Justine lets out a long hiss of breath as she forces herself to calm. “Pay more attention in future,” she orders Mira, before turning on her heel and marching away.

-

If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Barely a moment after Justine stalks off, you see Cato hurrying over with a grim look on his face. “Isambard, I need to talk to you,” he begins, skipping any hint of pleasantries before glancing at the two soldiers, “In private.”

Mira and Jericho waste no time in hurrying away, looking faintly relieved, and Cato gestures for you to follow him. He guides you into the privacy of a secluded prayer room, gesturing towards a seat. Misty sits at the same table, trying her best to look cheerful. “Okay, so what’s this about?” you ask, looking between them both.

“We just got a telegram from the Choir. It’s, uh, not good news,” Misty answers, fiddling with a piece of folded paper, “Their people have been seeing omens lately, omens signifying defeat, failure and, um, death.”

A silence falls as you take this in. Cato’s face is ashen, though this can’t be the first time he’s hearing this. As the silence draws out, Misty grows more and more restless.

“But like, it not mean US,” she adds hastily, “Maybe it means the bad guys are going to lose?”

“I’m not willing to take that chance,” Cato says bluntly, “The Saint’s proclamation shouldn’t go ahead today. Unfortunately, it’s not my decision to make. The Saint herself is unlikely to change her mind, but I have to try. Isambard, will you come with me?”

“I’m not sure if there’s anything I can add,” you point out, “Maybe I could provide some moral support?”

“That’s enough for me,” Cato replies with a nod.

[2/3]

>>6273809

A small tray of pink sweets sits before Saint Lucille, the delicate scent of roses rising up. She picks up one of the sweets with two graceful fingers and studies it for a moment before popping it in her mouth. She chews and swallows, letting out a soft sigh of satisfaction, and then she finally deigns to notice you. “Oh, hello Cato!” she chirps, “And you’re Ellie’s friend, aren’t you?”

You glance aside to Elle, waiting nearby with a notepad and pen. She meets your gaze and, while she doesn’t exactly roll her eyes, she certainly gives the impression of doing so.

“Your Grace,” Cato replies, bowing his head, “There’s something of grave importance that I need to discuss with you. Threats have been made against your life, and the omens are warning of dire consequences. I believe it would be in everyone’s best interests if we postponed today’s ceremony until-”

“No no, that won’t do,” Lucille shakes her head, “The people are expecting to see me today. If I run and hide, what will they think? I’m supposed to be giving hope to the people. How can I do that if I’m hiding away?”

“But-”

“This isn’t a debate, Cato,” the saint interrupts, her voice hardening, “I have full confidence in your security arrangements. Are you telling me that you’re not capable of doing the job?”

You shoot Cato a quick look, to see if he wants you to step in, but he shakes his head. There wouldn’t be any point – there isn’t a single thing in this whole world you could say right now that would change her mind. The cathedral could be burning and collapsing around her, and she would insist on going ahead.

“The ceremony will proceed as planned,” Cato says softly, turning to you, “Isambard, I haven’t yet decided your role in all this. I thought you might be well suited to watching the crowds. The cathedral has high balconies that would allow you a good view over the whole area. You might have a better chance of spotting any trouble, but you might not have a chance to intervene directly.”

“Or, you could join the crowd itself,” he continues, “That way, you’d be far closer to any possible threat. We’re expecting the crowd to be dense, however. You may not be able to spot something unless it’s very close by.”

“Oh, I have an idea!” Lucille adds, her eyes widening with a pleasant surprise, “You could stay by my side instead. You’ll have pride of place on the stage, and you wouldn’t need to rub shoulders with the masses. It’s the perfect place for you!”

>I’ll take position in the balcony and watch the crowds from above
>I’ll take position within the crowd and deal with any troublemakers
>I’ll stay by the saint’s side and protect her directly
>I’ll let you decide, Cato. This is your operation, after all
>Other

>>6273811
>I’ll stay by the saint’s side and protect her directly
Or ensure her death, if it comes down to it and proves necessary...

>>6273811
>I’ll stay by the saint’s side and protect her directly
We can wave to the crowd, and get visibility of House Pale with a Saint

>>6273818
Bro wtf

>>6273822
There's always a chance that a snooty saint like her turns out to be outright evil,e specially when someone passes us a secret note saying she needs to die for the sake of humanity.

“As you wish,” you say to Lucille, bowing your head slightly, “I’ll stay by your side and protect you directly.”

“Excellent!” she announces, clapping her hands together with giddy glee, “From the moment I first set eyes on you, I knew that you had the makings of a perfect bodyguard. Cato, please let the others know that Master Pale will be joining me today. Have them prepare suitable attire. Hmm… maybe a haircut too, since we’ve got the time…”

“Your Grace, you may be asking a little too much,” Cato suggests delicately. You pretend not to have heard anything, meeting Elle’s eyes again. She looks like she’s suffering from an acute migraine, though you know that’s not the real reason for the pained look on her face. Murmuring an excuse, you touch Elle’s arm and lead her from the room.

As soon as the door is closed behind you, Elle lets out a weary sigh. “Don’t ask,” she mutters, “Just don’t.”

“Ellie?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“Lucy… I mean, Saint Lucille thinks I should call myself that. It’s “cute”, apparently,” she shakes her head, “I’m starting to think this visit was a terrible idea.”

Aren’t they always?

-

Fortunately, the “suitable attire” that Lucille spoke of is nothing too excessive. A simple dark uniform with a long coat, the sort of outfit that easily blends into the background. You just wish it wasn’t so warm – the sweat is already starting to gather on the back of your neck, and it’s only going to get worse as time goes on.

It’s not yet time for the pilgrims to enter, but you can already hear the low rumble of their voices outside. Taking your position flanking the Saint’s dais, you glance up at the balconies above. Cato and Elle peer down at you, and you take some comfort from the sight. If Cato spots anything, he’ll send Elle down with a warning. That’s the plan, at least – you’ll see what happens when it clashes against reality.

“Whatever happens, Master Pale, you are to stay by my side,” Lucille warns from atop her platform, her gaze fixed on the sealed doors, “You are to be my last line of defence.”

It makes your head spin, how quickly she can switch from stiff formality to girlish excitement. You wonder which one is the act, and which one is her true face.

“Your Grace,” a servant whispers, “It’s almost time.”

“Oh God,” Lucille groans, “I’m not ready, I’ve forgotten the speech. I’ve-”

“The script, Your Grace,” the servant reminds her gently, pointing to a neatly printed sheet of paper laid out before her.

“The script, of course. Thank you… er,” she hesitates, fumbling to try and remember the servant’s name, “Thank you. That will be all.”

The standards for saints these days must really be slipping.

[1]

>>6273836

The doors open with a bang, unleashing a tide of humanity like water flowing from a sundered dam. The soldiers at the doors do their best to slow the tide, to check over as many of the pilgrims as possible for any signs of trouble, but it’s just too much. With so many bodies pressing up against the crowd, the soldiers soon have to stand aside or risk a stampede. Streaming forth, the pilgrims start to fill the cathedral with frightful speed.

As the cavernous room fills up with bodies, you do your best to judge the threat. A heavy fence of wrought iron holds back the crowd, and the Saint’s dais is raised up enough to keep her well out of reach, though even those defences might not be enough against a sufficiently determined attacker – or one with a gun.

Silence falls, save for the occasional cough or shuffling of feet, as the sea of pilgrims waits for the Saint to speak. She stares out across the sea of faces, blind animal panic causing her eyes to widen until you see nothing but white.

“My friends…” she begins, her voice cracking a little as she forces out the words. She pauses, swallows, then continues in a firmer tone. “My friends, it warms my heart to see so many of you here to listen to the words of this humble child of God,” another pause, “I am truly not worthy of your devotion. A lifetime of service would not be enough to repay your kindness.”

You glance up towards the balcony, just as Cato points down into the crowd and whispers something to Elle. She vanishes, appearing a few moments later to pass a message to Captain Renoir. He, in turn, gives a hushed order to one of his waiting men. Looking back to the crowd, you try to see what the problem is. You can see some faint signs of movement towards the rear, but the crowd is too dense to reveal much. After a few moments, you spot a pilgrim being dragged from the mass of bodies and roughly frisked down. When the soldiers find that he’s carrying nothing more dangerous than a holy amulet, he’s shoved back into the crowd.

So it goes, as Lucille drones on and on. It doesn’t take long before you tune out her voice entirely, focusing on the ebb and flow of the crowd. Even this starts to grow monotonous after a while. Aside from the occasional moment when a pilgrim gets a little too excited and tries to push forwards, the crowd is perfectly sedate. Perhaps it’s the heat, but you start to feel vaguely sickened by it all. You could excuse the pilgrims for their rapt attention if Lucille had been saying anything meaningful, but her speech feels hollow, somehow indifferent. She talks of hope for the future, truths that will be revealed, and a path ahead for all the nation, but she knows nothing.

You know what the future holds, and it’s far from the golden new dawn that she promises.

[2/3]

>>6273860

Just as you’re starting to wonder how much longer the speech is going to last, you feel a sudden pang of unease. Lucille seems to feel it too, stumbling over a word and hesitating to find her place again. You glance around, trying to figure out what’s wrong, but nothing seems amiss. Then you spot Cato in the high balcony, his face taut with alarm. Elle is nowhere to be seen, which means she must be delivering a message. Another rowdy pilgrim?

“I know…” Lucille continues, nervously speaking up once more, “I know that the future can seem like a great black ocean, an endless night that swallows all hopes, but I believe… we should ALL believe that the sun will rise again.”

A ripple passes through the crowd as a pair of soldiers start to push their way into the dense mass of bodies. As the pilgrims sway and waver, you see a flash of white within the crowd – a white scarf or shawl, lined with black markings. The pilgrim moves forwards through the crowd, slipping around his fellow worshippers with an uncanny ease as he draws closer and closer to the dais. Yet, a moment later he seems to have vanished completely, blending in with the crowd.

A twitch runs through your body, instinct guiding your hand to the revolver at your belt, but you pull away at the last moment. A gunshot here could cause a panic, the stampede that the soldiers had tried to hard to prevent. Worse still, any other villains hiding in the crowd might take advantage of the panic to strike. Your sword is just as useless – not enough room to swing it in the crowded hall. Your dagger, then?

Thoughts and possibilities whirl through your head. All the while, the soldiers close in around the suspect as he creeps towards the Saint.

>Stay by the Saint and keep her safe. The soldiers have this under control
>Take a shot with your revolver when the suspect shows themselves. You’ll have to take the risk of panic
>Descend into the crowd and take out the suspect yourself. You can’t leave this to chance
>Other

>>6273865
>Stay by the Saint and keep her safe. The soldiers have this under control
Stick to the plan

>>6273865
I feel like pulling out the moonlight here will be effective AND cause the most panic of them all.
>Call for everyone to applaud the Saint, make it harder to blend in while moving.

>>6273865
>>Call for everyone to applaud the Saint, make it harder to blend in while moving.

>>6273870
+1

When this day started, you’re sure that Lucille had a very nice idea of how things would go. She wake up early and be pampered by her devoted servants, then eat sweet treats until the ceremony begun. Then she would go up on stage and give a wonderful speech, something that would touch the hearts of all those who heard it. All the while, she would bask in the adoring attention of the crowd.

Needless to say, things aren’t going to plan. Even without knowing exactly what’s going on, she can see that trouble is looming on the horizon. Her voice falters again, the familiar look of panic swallowing up the whole of her face. A murmur of confusion, dismay, ripples through the crowd as the pilgrims start to whisper to one another. They’re all waiting for something, without knowing what.

You do the first thing that comes to mind. You start to applaud, as if Lucille had brought her speech to a glorious end instead of stopping in the middle of a sentence. A few of the pilgrims mindlessly follow along when you shoot a dark glare into the crowd, the applause soon spreading like a plague. The noise is almost deafening, but it makes it far easier to spot your suspect. While the rest of the crowd are clapping their hands together, he’s the only one still pushing forwards. You whistle for attention and point towards the man, guiding the soldiers forwards. They press through the unresisting crowd with renewed vigour, one of them reaching close enough to lunge forwards and grab at the cloaked man. He doesn’t quite reach, but his wild grab pulls away the trailing white shawl.

Time slows to a crawl as the suspect stumbles forwards, the loss of their shawl revealing their deadly surprise. In the space of what could only be a few heartbeats, you see so many things. You see the soldier losing his balance and falling against the crowd, still clutching desperately to the discarded white shawl. You see a wave of fear spread out through the crowd, some still applauding even as their eyes widen with horror. You see Mira, frozen in place halfway through reaching out to the suspect, her arm still outstretched to claw at the thin air.

You see the heavy mass of metal worn around the pilgrim’s chest, perhaps twelve standard military pattern grenades laced together. Candlelight glints off the loose pins as the pilgrim clumsily rips them free and throws them aside. Nothing seems to happen, the moment drawing out for so long that you start to wonder if the explosives have failed. But deep in your heart, you know they won’t fail.

Forcing your body to move, you twist around and throw yourself on top of Lucille. She starts to say something, but her words are blown away by the sudden force of the explosion.

[1]

>>6273877
a suicide bomber? they ain't fookin around.

>>6273877

Nothing, for the longest time. Then, finally, a shrill ringing in your ears. If not for that painful noise, you would have carried on thinking that you were dead. More pain blossoms through a hundred different places in your body as you roll off of Lucille, slumping down to the ground and retching. A hideous abattoir smell fills the cathedral, the air feeling hot and wet in your lungs. Blindly groping for something to hold onto, you pull yourself upright on unsteady legs. The scene before you wavers in and out of focus, which seems like something close to mercy. Despite the desperate urging in the back of your mind, the shrill voice urging you to close your eyes, you force yourself to look out across the cathedral.

Bloodied bodies, and parts of bodies, are strewn everywhere, but the bodies aren’t the worst part. Here and there, you see shimmering black shapes perched atop the bodies. They shudder and warp, their movements unlike those of any living things, as they feast on the dead and they dying. They cast no shadows, those nightmarish things. They ARE shadows.

Then, you’re granted the mercy that you denied yourself. You faint, consciousness eagerly fleeing the monstrous scene before you.

-

You couldn’t say how long it is before you wake, a warm beam of sunlight falling across your face. You raise an arm to shield your eyes, seeing a white length of bandage wound around the limb. As if roused by the sight of that bandage, pain awakens throughout your entire body. That’s fine, you think to yourself, pain just means that you’re still alive.

Even without looking around, you sense someone waiting by your bedside. You cast a glance across, expecting to see Elle’s familiar face, but a black phantom greets you instead.

“Master Pale,” Justine murmurs, “I’m told that you shielded the Saint with your own body. It may be that she still lives because of your quick thinking.”

“Not quick enough,” you mutter, “How many did we lose?”

“Shh…” the priestess whispers, “Do not concern yourself with that now. Your wounds are not serious, but there is still a risk of contagion. Rest. Focus on your own recovery.”

With a low groan, you slump back in the bed. “Where’s Elle?” you ask after a moment, “Was she-”

“She is fine. Unharmed,” Justine shakes her head, “She’s been helping to tend to the wounded, out in the main hall.”

“I need to see her.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, Master Pale.”

“I need to see her.”

[2/3]

>>6273883

You can walk, fortunately, although Justine gives you a stout wooden staff to help your balance. Leaning heavily on it, you limp out into the main cathedral hall. While you’ve been unconscious, it’s been converted into a makeshift infirmary. Countless bedrolls are spread out across the floor, each one with a wounded man resting upon it. A few curtains have been set up around what you assume to be the worst cases, keeping their suffering away from prying eyes. The curtains can’t do anything about the sound, however – a constant groaning that rises and falls like the tides, countless voices all sharing the same pain.

Priests scurry about with armfuls of bloodied bandages or fresh supplies, while the soldiers do what they can to help out. Saint Lucille still sits upon her dais, staring out at the scene unfolding before her with wide, unblinking eyes. She seems almost catatonic, the lively young woman reduced to an empty shell.

Before you can worry too much about the Saint, you spot Elle staggering away from one of the curtains. Her hands are red with blood, the delicate lace sleeves of her dress stained beyond saving. Seeing you, she slowly approaches and wordlessly slumps into your waiting arms.

“I couldn’t save him,” she mumbles, her words muffled by your chest.

“Who?” you ask, fearing the worst.

“...I don’t know,” she answers, shuddering as a sob runs through her body, “I didn’t know his name.”

You say nothing, merely holding Elle as she cries. Right now, that’s the only thing she needs. Yet, there seems to be no end to her tears. A convulsion runs through her body, and she weakly beats a fist against your chest.

“Who are these people? Who could do a thing like… like this?” the oracle gasps, “And why… why do they hate us so much?”

>I’m going to have to pause things here for today. We’re in the middle of a heatwave at the moment, and it’s really killing me. I’d like to continue tomorrow, even if it’s just a shorter update, but I can’t confirm that yet. I’ll post an update later when I know
>Thank you for reading today!

>>6273895
Stay cool, stay safe, and thank you for running.

>>6273895
So the moonlight would've been a supernatural fear on top of physical fear.

staying in the crowd would've needed some insane plans to stop a suicide bomber when you didn't know they were one. Maybe Juno could've pulled it off.

>>6273895
Thanks for running!

Damn they really wanted to kill Lucille
Heat wave is bringing me suffering too :(
I wish I was waiting warmly but I’m waiting hotly

>>6273895
>“Who are these people? Who could do a thing like… like this?” the oracle gasps, “And why… why do they hate us so much?”
They're evil cultists Elle. The end goal of all cults is to turn their members into this in service of their master.

Schedule update: I've not slept much, and I've had no luck with prepping an update. I'm going to push the next post ahead to next Saturday. Conditions are supposed to be a little better then, hopefully.

To hell with the sun

>>6274214
Don't let the Sun King hear that talk, kek.

See you next week!

>>6274214
>To hell with the sun
Woah woah woah, careful! You don't want to end up like this!

>>6274214
>Makes super powerful sun gods and MCs
>Hates the sun
what did he mean by this

>>6274464
He hates it but also respects its power

Even after a full day of rest, it still doesn’t get any easier to process the previous day’s attack. You feel as if you’re walking through a dream, as if every illusion of safety was shattered in a single devastating moment. It’s strange. You’ve seen terrible things, things that no man should ever see, yet it’s this one deed that strikes you to the core. Perhaps it’s because it was an act of man, human malice given form.

As you walk out into the main body of the cathedral, you can see that, for some, the shock is starting to wear off. Faces that were previously numb and lifeless now wear dark scowls, and hushed voices whisper of vengeance, of repercussions. Yet, repercussions against who? You’re fighting a war against the shadows, against an enemy that is forever out of reach.

You glance back at the dais as you walk, but the Saint is nowhere to be seen. In her place, a sea of gifts and tributes has been left at the foot of the dais. You examine a few of the notes and letters, each one wishing the Saint well. She walked away without a scratch, but some of the pilgrims are acting as if she’s fighting for her life.

Turning away in disgust, you spot a pair of familiar faces across the hall. Steeling yourself for what may be a very unpleasant conversation, you reluctantly approach the pair of soldiers.

“Master Pale,” Jericho begins, his face dark. Mira nods up at you from her sickbed, her face drawn with pain despite her attempts at a brave face.

“Do you need anything?” you ask quietly, “I can get one of the priests to-”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. We saw Miss Justine not that long ago, actually. She sat with me for a while and held my hand,” Mira hesitates, then lets out a faltering laugh, “I just wish it had been the hand that was still attached to my body.”

“Stop making those stupid jokes,” Jericho growls as your eyes flick down to the neatly bandaged stump of her right arm, “They’re not funny.”

“Not everyone can be as stoic as you, pal,” she shoots back, “With me, it’s either laugh or cry.”

Nobody says anything for a while. Eventually you clear your throat, trying to move on from the difficult subject. “And how is Miss Justine holding up?” you wonder aloud, “I hope she’s not pushing herself too hard.”

Jericho and Mira trade an uneasy glance. “She seemed-” he begins, only to fall silent before he can finish his sentence. You automatically glance behind you, just in case the priestess has appeared out of nowhere, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Looking back, you gesture for the pair to continue. Jericho thinks for a moment, then helplessly shakes his head. Lost for words, he gives his comrade a pleading look.

“She looked pretty unhappy. I mean, of course she was,” Mira says quietly, “But she didn’t seem… surprised.”

[1/2]

>>6277034

You consider Mira’s words for a long moment. Justine’s heart is a sealed vault, you have no doubt about that, but what secrets lie within it? Perhaps she was simply putting on a brave face for the sake of the wounded. Or perhaps she knew what was coming. Your thoughts are interrupted as Jericho jolts to his feet, snapping a quick salute.

“There’s no need for that,” Cato tells the soldier, waving a hand at him, “I’m not your commanding officer. Today, I’m just a man like any other.”

“Yes sir,” Jericho replies, “Understood, sir.”

Cato sighs, then nods to you and gestures towards the far end of the hall. Returning his nod with one of your own, you follow him across to the relative privacy. “What’s the situation?” you ask quietly, “Any new developments?”

“Maybe. Captain Renoir thinks we may have identified the attacker. We don’t have a name, but we’ve interviewed some pilgrims who claim to have recognised him. He was part of a small group that took up lodgings in the outskirts,” Cato explains quickly, his voice low and precise. If not for the slight waver in his words, you’d think that he was completely unaffected by the bloodshed. “Captain Renoir intends to investigate further, though I don’t know what he expects to find,” Cato shakes his head, “Another cold trail, perhaps. But it’s better than doing nothing at all.”

“Unless he gets himself killed,” you point out, “Our enemies are ruthless, and clearly not afraid of death.”

“Then perhaps we should follow their example,” Cato muses, “If this is a declaration of war, then we must respond in kind.”

“Careful, Cato,” you warn, “That might be exactly what they want. Even if they were all to die, they might still consider that a victory if they can drag you down with them.”

Cato thinks on this for a moment, then nods. “You speak wisely, Isambard. Though, I confess, it feels strange to come to you for moral guidance,” he allows himself a humourless smile, “That aside, I have another favour to ask of you. I’m concerned about the Saint. She’s withdrawn to her chambers since yesterday and refuses to speak with me. If you have an opportunity, would you try to speak with her?”

“What makes you think she’ll speak with me?”

“She chose you to be her bodyguard. When the attack came, you shielded her with your own body,” the silver haired young man shrugs, “If she’ll speak with anyone, it’ll be you.”

You’re not sure if you should treat that as an honour.

>You should join Captain Renoir on his investigations
>You need to talk with Justine, to see whose side she’s really on
>You’ll try and check on the Saint while you’re here
>Other

>>6277035
>You’ll try and check on the Saint while you’re here
Sorry Justine and Renoir, we only talk to people that matter

>>6277035
>You’ll try and check on the Saint while you’re here
wondering if Elle is up to talking to Justine. If anyone would be able to connect on the point of doubts of the current system, it'd be her.

>>6277035
>>You’ll try and check on the Saint while you’re here

>>6277035
>You need to talk with Justine, to see whose side she’s really on

“I understand. I’ll try and talk with her, assuming she’ll see me,” you tell Cato, “You’re putting a lot of faith in me, you know. That’s normally a bad idea.”

“We all have to put our faith in something, Isambard,” he answers, offering you a faint smile, “I feel that the Saint may appreciate talking with someone outside the church – and I know you won’t be afraid to speak your mind, if necessary.”

You give Cato a nod, leaving him to hurry off on whatever duties he has planned. As you’re heading towards the Saint’s private quarters, you notice Elle sitting slumped on a bench. Deciding that the Saint can wait a few minutes more, you sit next to Elle and put a light hand on her shoulder. She stiffens up a little, then forces a smile. “I’m sorry, Isambard, I didn’t see you coming over,” she murmurs, “We’ve barely had a moment to talk, haven’t we? I was just taking a moment to rest now, before I go back to the wounded. We aren’t nearly so overwhelmed now, thankfully.”

Most of the lightly wounded patients have been moved out of the cathedral by now. The most severely wounded, by contrast, have almost all passed. All that’s left are a few of the most stubborn cases, men and women caught between life and death.

“Could you do something for me?” you ask in a low voice, “Keep an eye on Justine, if you’re going to be working together. See if you can strike up a conversation, when circumstances allow.”

“I’ll try,” Elle promises, giving you a nod, “I think she trusts me. At least, a little.”

“Good,” you reply. You try not to think about how you’re asking her to abuse that trust.

-

One of the priests gives you an evil glare as you knock at the Saint’s door, but he makes no attempt to stop you. There’s no response at first, or even after your second knock. The priest’s scowl starts to turn into a look of vicious satisfaction as the silence draws out. Feeling his eyes on you, you clear your throat. “Your Grace?” you ask, recalling what Cato called her, “It’s Isambard. May I come in?”

Another long silence, then.

“If you must!” the muffled, girlish voice replies. It has a strange tone in it – a nervous excitement, crushed beneath a deliberate attempt at reluctance. She’s been waiting for you, you realise, even if circumstances won’t allow her to show it. Giving the priest a smirk, you show yourself inside. The room is dimly lit, and a heavy smell of perfume hangs in the air. The Saint awaits further inside, a shimmering silhouette behind gauzy curtains.

“Please sit,” Lucille offers, her shadowy form gesturing vaguely towards a low couch. You take her up on her offer, and the Saint soon appears. Without all of her finery, she seems like a completely different person – smaller, somehow diminished. Before, she wore the ceremonial garb like armour and revelled in the sense of invulnerability. That illusion has been thoroughly shattered now.

[1]

>>6277069

“Cato asked me to check up on you,” you begin as the Saint sits down beside you, “He was worried. He said that you haven’t allowed anyone else to see you.”

“He’s correct,” Saint Lucille pauses, gestures vaguely towards herself, “They shouldn’t see me like this, should they?”

“Like a normal girl, you mean?”

She nods, as if pleased that you understood. “I know you think that I’m just some silly little girl, and maybe you’re right, but I understand a few things,” she muses, “I understand that I’m not allowed to look scared or weak, no matter how I feel. I am a symbol of the church, the soul of the nation. I must be someone that the people can look up to. In a way, we’re not so different. You are… excuse my ignorance, Master Pale, but you are the sole representative of your family, are you not?”

“Something like that,” you answer. You’re not even going to try and mention Gratia here.

“Then, you are solely responsible for countless generations of lineage and legacy. You ARE House Pale,” Lucille explains, “And I am the church.”

“No pressure, then.”

Lucille forces a laugh. “It’s quite a lot of pressure, actually,” she remarks, “It was a lot of pressure before, and now…”

Her voice trails off, a new seriousness darkening her features. “Master Pale, there is something I must ask of you,” she adds, the stilted formality in her voice giving hard edges to her words, “Two things, actually. First – I have a question for you, but it must be held in perfect confidence. You can’t… speak of this with anyone else.”

“Understandable,” you nod, “Ask away.”

“Out there in the cathedral, after the… attack,” she pauses, bites her lip, “Did you… see anything?”

Shimmering black shapes perched atop corpses, gorging themselves on shredded flesh and spilled blood. Nightmarish apparitions, otherworldly beings that were ancient when your race was still young. A grim premonition of-

“See anything?” you repeat in a casual voice, even as you feel a cold sweat trickle down the back of your neck, “Like what?”

“I can’t say,” Lucille shakes her head, “Because then I might prejudice your answer.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. For the Saint to be asking you a question like this, it can only mean that she saw the same thing that you did – but while you know what that frightful vision implied, she is entirely ignorant. Perhaps it would be better for her to stay that way.

>Tell her what you saw, and what you know of the Stryx
>Tell her what you saw, but plead ignorance of what it meant
>Lie, and tell her you saw nothing. Trauma can do strange things
>Other

>>6277086
>Tell her what you saw, and what you know of the Stryx
If the church trusts her, I trust her

>>6277089
You trust the church that much?

>>6277086
>Tell her what you saw, but plead ignorance of what it meant
This is for us to handle, and those in our confidence.

>>6277089
+1
You need to wake the fuck up to the real danger threatening our world if you intend on being a saint and an icon of the people's hope

>>6277086
>>Tell her what you saw, and what you know of the Stryx

“I saw something too,” you admit, lowering your voice a little, “I can’t say if we saw the same thing, but I saw something. I saw black shapes, shapes that moved like no living thing. They were like shadows that moved, or something that drained the light out of everything they passed near. I saw them settle upon the fallen, the dead and the dying, and they…”

Your voice trails off as you watch the blood drain from Lucille’s face. It seems to take all her strength of will, but she forces herself to speak. “They were feeding,” she whispers, “We saw the same thing, you and I. But… what does it mean? What WERE those-”

“Those things are called the Stryx. They come from… well, some place other than this. The scent of blood and fear draws them to feed,” you explain slowly. Your words are like pebbles thrown into a deep dark well, swallowed up with no reaction. “What you saw, what WE saw, was just a tiny fraction of their true number. If the Stryx turned their full gaze upon our world, they could scour it of all life and we would have no means to stop them,” you continue, “This… isn’t my first encounter with them.”

Lucille swallows heavily, licking her lips as she tries to speak. “What…” she croaks at last, forcing out the word, “What can we do?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, “Maybe there’s nothing we CAN do. But I’m not ready to give up just yet.”

Another long silence falls. You wonder if Lucille really understands what you’re telling her, or if she’s simply seen too much death to be frightened. “Fear,” she says at last, as if sensing your thoughts, “You say that these things are drawn by… fear?”

“Among other things, yes.”

“Then we mustn’t allow ourself the luxury of fear,” Lucille announces, leaping up from the couch. With a new energy in her step, she hurries over to a dressing table and starts to dust powder onto her face. “I’m going to go out there,” she continues, “I have to be seen, to be strong for the people. No matter what these villains do, I mustn’t allow them to get the better of me. I’m going to be the best damn Saint that this land has ever seen!”

You just sit, watching her with dull surprise. Her entire mood changed so quickly that you’re struggling to catch up. Still, you’re not sure if you should complain. Cato wanted you to talk with her, to try and lift her spirits, and it seems like you’ve succeeded.

But the good cheer doesn’t last. Just as Lucille is carefully applying a thin line of black around her eyes, you hear the rumble of a distant explosion. You both jolt around, the paintbrush leaving a long streak of black across Lucille’s face. “What was that?” she asks, eyes widening with shock.

“More bad news,” you reply grimly, “Get ready. We’re both going to have a lot of work to do.”

[1]

>>6277125

The armed soldiers step aside as you exit the cathedral, squinting your eyes against the bright sunshine as you peer across the horizon. A pillar of dark smoke rises up from the outskirts, and the city echoes with the sound of distant shouting. Time seems to slip away from you as you watch the smoke thin and fade, your full attention only returning when you see some of Captain Renoir’s men rushing out from the streets. They carry a stretcher between them, the captain himself thrashing upon it.

“Stand aside!” one of them yells, waving his free hand. You urgently move aside so they can enter the cathedral, glancing down at the wounded man as he passes by. Captain Renoir has his hands clasped tightly around his throat, blood seeping through his trembling fingers. Then he’s gone, ushered inside away from prying eyes. Another two stretchers pass you by, though the soldiers lying on those are perfectly still and cold.

“Cato!” you call out, catching a glimpse of silver hair, “What happened?”

“It was a trap,” Cato spits, wiping sweat and grime from his face, “A bomb, a tripwire, I…”

“Master Silvera, please don’t push yourself,” Lucille orders, in a sharp voice unlike any you’ve heard from her before. “You have fought bravely, but you must rest too,” she adds, taking him by the hand and pulling him inside. Numbly, Cato allows himself to be guided inside. The Saint’s behaviour seems more shocking to him than the violence itself.

-

With a mug of hot tea untouched in his hands, Cato draws in a long, shuddering breath. “We didn’t encounter any trouble on the way to the suspect’s house,” he explains, “There were a lot of locals about, but they stayed out of our way. Smart. Captain Renoir would have shot anyone who tried to stop us.”

“The house was empty when we arrived. Even the owner was gone. Scared off, maybe, or bribed. We swept through, but when we were checking upstairs…” Cato pauses, finally taking a sip of his drink, “It was dark. The windows had been blocked up. We didn’t see that someone had strung a wire across the doorway. Marco was the first one through. He died straight away, I think. Reinhard was next. I… I thought he was going to make it, but he must’ve lost more blood than I thought.”

“They think Captain Renoir is going to pull through,” you tell him, “They managed to stop the bleeding, at least.”

Cato nods slowly, though this bit of good news barely seems to register.

“I should’ve been there,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair, “Me and my sharp eyes…”

“You can’t be everywhere at once, Isambard,” Cato replies, reaching over and placing a hand on your shoulder, “You can’t blame yourself. We’ll find the ones responsible for all this, and they WILL be judged accordingly.”

[2/3]

>>6277135
Why is EVERYBODY so incompetent? Can't these side characters ever do something useful offscreen? Can't they have a single easy win for once? For fuck's sake! We are only one man! We cannot be everywhere all at once!

>>6277135

“You said something to her, didn’t you?” Elle whispers as she watches Saint Lucille shake hands with some of the wounded soldiers.

“I may have told her a few harsh truths,” you confess, “Though, I’ll admit that I wasn’t expecting her to take them so well.”

“Hm,” Elle muses, “I’m not sure I should feel jealous or not.”

You both fall silent, pretending that you’re not eavesdropping as the Saint talks with the soldiers. Her expression is perfect – solemn, but also warm and encouraging. She’s wasted on large crowds, you realise, this is where she really shines. For every man she meets, she has something to say. Not once do you hear her repeat herself. Your appreciation for her talents is interrupted as Cato hurries over. This time, a look of cold triumph is alight on his face.

“I’ve got news,” he announces, taking you by the arm and leading you away from the crowd. “When the men were injured, we split up. I left some of the men behind to sweep through the rubble while I brought the wounded here. They found someone.”

“In the rubble?” you ask, “A corpse isn’t going to be very helpful.”

“No, outside. The rest of the civilians fled when they heard the explosion, but this man was just standing outside and watching us. I didn’t even notice him, but one of the men caught him. He didn’t even try to struggle, apparently,” Cato explains, “They’ve brought him here now. There’s a basement chamber that will serve as a prison cell for now.”

“Hm,” you muse, “Anything else?”

“Maybe. We found this in the house,” Cato takes out a gold pendant and offers it out. You take it, feeling a tingle of power in your fingertips.

It’s a normal sort of holy icon, though you notice a thin seam running down it. You’ve seen these sorts of things before – they usually have a small portrait within, sometimes an image of a Saint or the wearer’s beloved. Working a fingernail into the seam, you pop the pendant open. There’s no portrait inside, just the crude image of a centipede gouged into the metal.

“Take it, if you want,” Cato says, “I know you’re a collector of such things. It’ll just end up locked away in some church vault if you don’t want it.”

You gaze down into the crude markings. There is power here, as you first thought, but also the familiar sting of Calamity. Something else too, something you don’t have a name for.

>Take the pendant [+1 Sovereignty, +1 Calamity]
>Turn down the pendant

>>6277146
>>Turn down the pendant

>"Melt it down, this Pendant is tainted. Let fire purify and allow something new to be created."

>>6277138
Perhaps our enemies are simply MORE competent.

>>6277146
>Take the pendant [+1 Sovereignty, +1 Calamity]

>>6277156
+1
I am curious about the "something else"

>>6277146
>Take the pendant [+1 Sovereignty, +1 Calamity]
Centipedes are cool
Also good thing we let Lucille in on matters, she really stepped the fuck up. Earning that Sainthood

You study the pendant for what seems like a very long time, then snap the hinges closed. “I’ll take it,” you tell Cato, “Consider it payment for services rendered.”

“By all means. You’ve more than earned it, thus far,” Cato answers, “If you should happen to learn more about it, please tell us. It may shed some light on these degenerate cultists.”

“Maybe,” you reply vaguely, dropping the trinket into your pocket.

>[+1 Sovereignty Attunement, +1 Calamity Attunement]

As you’re thinking about your next move, a uniformed soldier hurries over to Cato and whispers something in his ear. Cato listens carefully, then sends the soldier away with a nod. “He’s here,” the silver-haired young man tells you, “They’ve got the suspect down in the basement now – and don’t worry, we’ve checked him for any weapons. He’s clean.”

“I certainly hope so,” you remark dryly, “Let’s just hope he hasn’t swallowed a grenade too.”

Cato’s eyes widen with alarm before he realises that you’re joking. Mostly joking.

-

Cato leads you down into the cathedral catacombs, where a heavy door awaits you. You start to wonder why a church would need such a sturdy door that locks from the outside, then realise that you really don’t want to know. You pause for a moment, glancing aside to Elle. She waits for your lead, clutching her notepad and pen tightly to her chest. Her face is calm, but her white knuckles reveal the anxiety inside her.

“Well, here goes,” Cato says to nobody in particular, opening the door and gesturing ahead. You enter with Elle, and Cato hauls the door shut behind him.

The prisoner is a tall man, with greying hair and a curiously bland face. It’s the sort of face that you forget almost as soon as you’ve looked away. Just to test the theory, you close your eyes for a moment and try to picture the man in your mind. You see the clothes he’s wearing, a creased white shirt and formal trousers, and you see the thinning hair, but his face is just… a blur.

“Sit down please,” Cato says, gesturing towards a chair.

“I’d rather stand,” the man answers, his voice almost completely flat and lifeless.

“I don’t care about your preferences. Sit, or I’ll have the soldiers outside break your legs,” Cato warns, though his bluster seems fake and forced. The prisoner seems to think so to, because what might be a smirk quickly passes across his face. Still, he sits. “That’s good,” Cato mutters, “Name?”

“It really doesn’t matter what my name is,” the prisoner replies, “I’m nothing really, in the grand scheme of things. Just a humble facilitator, nothing more than that.”

Silence, save for the quiet scratching of Elle’s pen.

[1]

>>6277195

“Recently, there was an attack on the grand cathedral. At current count, twenty eight people were killed. The attacker was traced back to a residence located in the Amaryllis outskirts,” Cato recites, “There, another trap killed two soldiers and severely wounded a third. You were apprehended in the vicinity, watching the explosion.”

“Are you asking me a question?” the Facilitator asks.

You watch with a vague interest as the muscles in Cato’s jaw clench. He says nothing for a moment, angrily shuffling some of the papers he brought. “I don’t think you realise how much trouble you’re in,” he says at last.

“I think I do. In fact, I highly suspect that I won’t survive to see tomorrow,” the Facilitator replies with perfect disinterest, “Would you care to make a wager on that?”

Again, Cato falls silent. You can see the anger and frustration on his face, his usual composure threatening to break down at any moment. Abruptly, he rises to his feet and bangs a fist against the cell door. One of the soldiers outside opens it, quickly closing it as soon as Cato has left. The prisoner watches him leave with neither satisfaction nor curiosity. He merely turns his gaze to you.

“Master Pale, is it not?” he asks softly, “If I may say so, you seem to be a man of intelligence. A man of will and purpose. May I ask you a question?”

You’d quite happily cut the man’s tongue out and shove it down his throat. Still, you gesture for him to speak.

“As I said, you seem to be a man of strong character. Why, then, do you allow yourself to be bound by another’s will?” the Facilitator muses, “I don’t mean that foolish man out there. No, I refer to a greater will.”

“The Godhead,” Elle says softly, glancing up from her notebook.

“Yes!” the prisoner declares, “The so-called grand design, the natural order, that men so piously cling to. It should shame you, to allow yourself to be guided by this distant, uncaring thing. Those beasts up there, flocking to worship at the feet of their new Saint, they won’t be shamed. They are beneath such things. But you, Master Pale, are not.”

“I see. I understand now,” you reply, nodding slowly, “You can’t fight against the Godhead, so you wanted to do the next best thing – to try and kill a Saint.”

“The fate of humanity, back in the hands of men,” the Facilitator counters, “Is that really such a bad thing to wish for?”

“Forgive me, sir, but I sense a contradiction in your words and deeds,” Elle points out, “You talk as if you love humanity, wishing to grant us all a great boon, but you also seem to view us as beasts to be slaughtered. For all your grand words, I think you’re nothing more than a child who doesn’t like being told to behave, a child now throwing a temper tantrum.”

This time, the irritation flashes across HIS face.

[2/3]

>>6277221

You barely have time to feel a sense of satisfaction before the anger on the Facilitator’s face is gone. He looks away from Elle, turning his colourless eyes back to you. “I can see that there’s no sense in talking with her,” he remarks, “You and I might be able to reach an understanding. Not her.”

“There is no “understand” between us, and there never will be,” you counter, trying to drag the conversation back onto familiar ground, “Are you acting alone, or do you have more allies waiting to strike? Allies within the church, even?”

“Oh, we have allies everywhere,” the Facilitator says with a shrug, “What if I did give you a name? Would you have them taken out and shot? Thrown in a cell like me? Ah, but I know a lot of names – more than you have cells, perhaps.”

A smirk passes across his face as something occurs to him.

“Why ask me all these questions?” he wonders aloud, “Why not ask your God for the answers? Ask it to whisper a name into your ear as you sleep.”

It’s clear that you’re getting nowhere with this scum. You’re about to follow Cato’s lead and storm out when you get one last idea. Taking the pendant out of your pocket, you open it up and slide it across the table. “You recognise this, don’t you?” you suggest, “What does this symbol mean?”

“This is the symbol of our philosophy, and yours too,” the Facilitator answers, turning the pendant over in his hands, “You are the ones who struggle and strive under the blazing sun. We are the ones who thrive in the darkness, the unseen places. Ask yourself, Master Pale, where you really belong.”

>I’m going to pause here for today. I should be able to run again tomorrow, even if the session is a bit shorter than today.
>Thank you for playing today!

>>6277231
Thanks for running!


>I can see that there’s no sense in talking with her,” he remarks, “You and I might be able to reach an understanding. Not her.
She’s right though
In trying to free yourselves from the Godhead you’ve merely made yourselves slaves to Calamity and other darker forces.

>Ah, but I know a lot of names – more than you have cells, perhaps.
Not more than we have bullets

>>6277231
Good session, QM.

>>6277248
They may be among those holding the guns and firing the bullets.

>>6277231
Thanks for running!
Based Elle calling out Calamityfags yet again.

>>6277191
>good thing we let Lucille in on matters, she really stepped the fuck up
We traded off going with the search party and preventing deaths in addition to seizing more evidence/leads and capturing cultists... and instead told somebody else of real power and influence the full truth, and had them emboldened by it. I get the feeling Lucille's efforts will have more impact than we assume. We won't hear much of it because of it being in the background, but there's a high chance this decision will pay off later

>>6277269
I'm actually glad we haven't played full Calamity edgelord. Our current style feels better

>>6277248
>In trying to free yourselves from the Godhead you’ve merely made yourselves slaves to Calamity and other darker forces.

I like saying this to him - and saying that by allying with the Stryx he has killed humanity

Make sure we shoot him once the discussion is over. There is no escaping, and nobody else will get info from him

>>6277377

>>6277355
I still don't trust the church much, either, thoguh. We've proven their leadership corrupt and misguided a few times, and the Godhead seems indifferent to humanity's upcoming extinction.

>>6277377
+1

“He’s clearly guilty,” you remark, over the clink of cutlery that fills the dining hall, “If he was innocent, he would say as much. He would plead for clemency, offer excuses for his actions. He wouldn’t gloat, wouldn’t mock us like this.”

“Of course he’s guilty. It’s only a matter of determining the depths of his crimes, and I fear that may be a hopeless endeavour. He won’t tell us anything that he doesn’t want to,” Cato pauses, hesitates, “It worries me. Our enemies have been running rings around us thus far, and I fear that this man is no different. He allowed us to capture him. Why?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, “But I think he’s too great of a risk to leave alive. Better that we get rid of him as soon as possible.”

A cold silence meets these words. You lean back, looking around the table and meeting the eyes gazing back at you. Elle looks fretful, but she makes to attempt to disagree. Justine is utterly impassive, silently considering your words. At the head of the table, the Saint herself fidgets and shifts in her seat. She’s the first one to break the silence, carefully clearing her throat.

“Before you do, I’d like to speak with this man,” she says carefully.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Cato warns.

“Your objections are noted,” Lucille replies, “Let me rephrase that. I’m going to speak with him.”

Though she carries no formal authority, her words allow no dissent.

-

“It’s getting very crowded in here all of a sudden,” the Facilitator muses, looking at the many bodies in his cell. With a smirk on the vague suggestion of his face, he lifts a cigarette to his lips.

“Who gave him that?” Cato demands, “He’s not supposed to-”

“You wanted to kill me,” Lucille interrupts in a low, soft voice, gazing directly at the prisoner, “May I ask why?”

The Facilitator turns his disinterested eyes on the Saint. “It’s nothing personal. You seem like a very nice young lady,” he answers, “I wish to kill all that you represent. That’s all.”

“Better men than you have tried,” Justine mutters from the rear of the room, where she leans back against the wall with arms stubbornly folded.

“As you well know,” the Facilitator replies, giving the older woman a long look. Justine’s lips start to draw back in a silent snarl, but then she recovers her composure. Looking away with a faint air of amusement, the Facilitator allows his gaze to pan across the room. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?” he asks nobody in particular, “No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you search, there will always be people like me. There will always people to try to strike back at you, who resist with the very depths of our souls. You seek complete dominion over mankind, but that goal will always be out of your reach. You want it all, but you will end up with nothing.”

[1/2]

>>6277704

The Saint’s chair lets out a loud groan as she pushes it back and abruptly stands. “I’ve heard enough,” she decides.

The Facilitator’s eyebrow raises in surprise. At least, you think it does. “Excuse me?” he asks.

“I’ve heard enough,” Lucille repeats, “I came here to try and understand you a little better, to get to know the man who wished for my death. I see now that you have nothing of value to say. Hollow proclamations and empty mockery. Nothing more.”

“Then I’ll tell you something of substance,” the Facilitator replies coldly, nodding across to you, “But only to him.”

The others glance at you, but thankfully without suspicion or accusations in their eyes. “Very well,” Cato says in a mild tone, getting up to leave alongside the others, “Let me know when you’re finished.”

The door closes with a heavy thud as the rest of the group files out, leaving you alone with the gaunt, scrawny prisoner. “I’d like to make a confession,” he announces, “I confess, I procured the explosives used in the cathedral attack, bought – at a shamefully low price, I might add – from a corrupt quartermaster. I confess, I provided those explosives to a fellow traveller, in full knowledge of what he intended to do with them.”

“May I ask why you’re telling me all this now?”

“So that when you execute me, you can do so with a clean conscience.”

“Thank you,” you pause for a moment, “Was there anything else you’d like to confess?”

“This is only just beginning. There will be more attacks,” the Facilitator promises, “The tides of history cannot be held back forever. The day will come when they wash away the remains of the old order, and all those who defend it. Then we will rise, to build a world free from the Godhead’s oppressive designs.”

“It’s funny. You talk of freedom, but in trying to free yourselves from the Godhead all you’ve done is shackle yourselves to the darker powers, to Calamity,” you counter, “You’re not free. You’ve just chosen a different master.”

“Is it really so hard to imagine a world outside of these prison bars?” he snaps, “Gods, spirits, these are all powers that men can master, can bend to their will, yet you would bow before them! You-”

The Facilitator pauses suddenly, and his ire is slowly replaced by a sickly smile. “I see now that there can be no understanding between us,” he declares, “Let’s not waste any more words. It’s time to end this farce.”

>I’m finished with you. Make your peace
>What connection do you have with the Tomoe?
>Are you saying that YOU can bend the gods to your will?
>I still have questions for you… (Write in)
>Other

>>6277705
>these are all powers that men can master, can bend to their will

I’ve seen that same arrogance and pride in others, in my own father. He also thought he could bend great cosmic powers to his whim - but he overestimated himself, as all humans do.

Now he is dead, just like you.

>>6277705
>All you worship is fear and hate. Blind fool that you are, you only seek to throw yourself and all of mankind into their gullet, to be consumed as the Giants of yore were when they attempted the same idiocy. Beseeching the Magna Mater, following Kalthos's teachings? They aren't to make a better world. It's to make a world you control for control's sake. I've seen where such ambitions lead. I've seen what my bastard of a father wrought to try and save his own sorry hide from his own mistakes, damning me and my sister for his ambition and folly. I've seen the Labyrinth of Phalaris and how all that is in it is empty and hollow, bereft of meaning until the creeping rot of ages corrupts into monstrosity. I've even witnessed the release of the Strix which your hated and hubris draw ever closer to reality, to consume us all. I've seen where your mad hateful ambition leads, annihilation.

>>6277705
>What connection do you have with the Tomoe?

>>6277705
> I’m finished with you. Make your peace
Rest in pepperoni

>>6277705
>Hey. Did they look like they were bowing to the Godhead? You saw that saint, not 2 days ago she was innocent buffoon. And yet she's so quickly taking charge, controlling the peace, bending, as you say, powers to her will.
>Destruction is not the only way to come to true power. I daresay it's one of the worst ones.

“Yes, it is. It’s time to end these foolish delusions of yours,” you spit, “You sit there and talk with boundless arrogance, misplaced pride, as if all of this is beneath you. You worship fear and hatred, thinking that they will bring you the power to bend great forces to your will. I’ve seen your kind before, and you always underestimate what you’re up against. Time and time again, it always ends the same way – swallowed up and destroyed by that which you called up.”

“I’ve seen where your ambitions lead,” you continue, brandishing the defiled pendant, “Whether it’s calling out to the Magna Mater or following these corrupt teachings, it’s all to make a world that YOU control. It’s a hollow ambition, an emptiness waiting to be filled by the rot of ages. It is annihilation.”

“And what of your path? Where does that lead?” the Facilitator snarls back, his composure wavering, “Do you really think that your Godhead will save you? Oblivion looms, and your god is silent. You all bow your heads and say your prayers, but you’re no better than a beast awaiting the butcher’s blade!”

“Is that really what you think? You saw the Saint just now. Just two days ago, she was little more than a foolish child. Now, she has an authority that would command armies. She is the one bending powers to her will, not you,” you hiss, jabbing a finger at the scrawny man, “Destruction is a poor way to claim power. You still have a lot to learn – it’s just a shame that you won’t ever get the chance.”

With a snarl of animalistic anger, the Facilitator lunges across the table and grabs for your throat. You’re quicker than him, jabbing one fist forwards in a quick punch that sends him reeling back, blood seeping from his nose. Before he can recover, you grab the side of his head and slam it down against the heavy wooden table. He slumps to the ground, collapsing so suddenly that you wonder for a moment if you’ve killed him. Then, unbelievably, he lets out a slow laugh.

“We could have argued philosophy for hours, days even…” he rasps, “But it ends up like this. Are you satisfied?”

“Almost,” you tell him, hauling him upright and shoving him back down into the chair, “Just a few more routine questions. No philosophy this time – I want straight, simple answers.”

The bloodied man says nothing, merely letting out another hollow laugh.

“Are you, or have you ever been, a member of House Tomoe?” you ask, reaching across the table and lightly slapping the prisoner when he doesn’t answer, “Yes or no, that’s all you need to say.”

“The Tomoe? Those so-called revolutionaries? Any bonds I once held with those cowards were severed long ago,” he spits, “They are nothing but hypocrites and liars. They thrive within the same system they claim to oppose, playing at pantomime villainy. I spit on the Tomoe!”

“I’ll take that as a “no” then,” you muse.

[1]

>>6277741

“Next-” you begin, only to be silenced by the sound of the door grinding open. You give the Facilitator a humourless smile, then leave the cold cell. Once the door slams shut behind you, you let out a long breath. “He’s insufferable,” you announce, “We’re definitely executing him after this, right?”

“We are,” Cato agrees, before wincing and looking aside to Saint Lucille, “Forgive me, Your Grace. You shouldn’t have to listen to this.”

“No no, it’s interesting,” she replies, only to pause for thought, “If I asked you to show mercy, to spare his life, would you?”

“I…” he hesitates, “I would be obliged to-”

“I wouldn’t,” you interrupt, “I certainly hope you weren’t planning on sparing him.”

“Oh no, of course not,” Lucille shakes her head, “I suppose I really ought to take the moral high ground in a situation like this, but… well, I don’t want to. Let him pay for his crimes.”

Good to see that you’re all in agreement.

Before you can say anything else, you hear Justine’s brisk footsteps approach. Her face is set in a cold, solemn mask, and she carries a length of knotted cord in her hands. “There are still patients resting upstairs,” she says softly, “I would prefer that they were not disturbed by the sound of a gunshot. In the early days of the church, wicked men were put to death by strangulation. Their executions would be silent, unseen events. I would see the same thing here.”

You stare at the cord in her hands. You’re no stranger to death by this point, but even this seems a little too-

“I’ll do it,” Cato announces, glancing aside to you, “That is, unless you…”

“Be my guest,” you tell him, quickly shaking your head, “Do it for Renoir and all the others.”

Cato nods, taking the cord from Justine and brushing past you. She follows him into the cell, closing the door behind her. The door is thick, and the stone walls even thicker, but you move a short distance away. You’d rather not overhear anything that goes on inside. Saint Lucille bows to you before hurrying away upstairs. Then it’s just you and Elle, the oracle lurking over by the far wall as she pretends to examine one of the many bodies laid out on the stone slabs.

“They should be buried,” you remark as you approach, “Don’t you think?”

“Mm. But we need to wait and see if their families will claim them. The cold air down here helps to slow the decay, apparently,” Elle answers with a tiny shrug, “I think it’s all a bit morbid, but... I, um… Isambard?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, “I never should have asked you to come out here with me.”

“Imagine how worse it might have been if we weren’t here,” you point out, “Don’t apologise. I think this is exactly where we need to be.”

Elle thinks for a moment, then nudges you with her elbow. “You’re just saying that because Lucy has a crush on you,” she teases.

[2/3]

>>6277753
> You’re just saying that because Lucy has a crush on you,” she teases.
Elle please
All women have crushes on me
I’ve long since grown accustomed to it

>>6277753

“Never mind Lucy. I mean Saint Lucille,” you reply quickly, “I wanted to talk about Justine.”

“Oh, you prefer older women?” Elle counters, giving you a sly smile.

As forced as it is, you appreciate her attempts at humour – just not enough to keep the joke going. “Did you have a chance to talk with her at all?” you press, making sure that your voice is low, “Did you learn anything about her?”

The smile slowly fades from Elle’s face. “She doesn’t talk much. We were busy with some of the wounded, of course, but not so busy that we couldn’t spare a moment. When we did talk, she spoke of the church or other people in town – never herself,” she shakes her head, “I don’t understand her. All the time I’ve worked with her, she’s tried very hard to save every patient she can… yet she never seems to care whether they live or die.”

“As an oracle, I sometimes get a “feeling” about people. It’s usually not a full prophecy, guidance from the Emanations, but more of an instinct. That woman, though… I feel nothing from her,” Elle continues, gazing at one of the cold corpses, “These bodies feel more full of life than her.”

Before she can say anything else, the cell door opens. Justine marches out, her gaze set straight forwards, while Cato lags behind. His face is pale and sweaty, as if he was suffering from some kind of terrible fever. “I suggest you take some time to rest. That goes for you two as well,” Justine announces, first to Cato and then directing her words towards you and Elle, “One of our enemies will reveal themselves at night, under the moonlight. Best that we are ready for them.”

With that, she heads up the stairs. Elle watches her leave with uneasy eyes, then lets out a sigh. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind a chance to rest,” she admits, “I’m going back to the hotel. I think… I think I’m a little sick of this place.”

>You should head back to the hotel with Elle. This isn’t a good time to be alone
>You should check up on Cato. The execution seems to have been a difficult one
>You should go after Justine. This might be a good chance to speak with her
>Other

>>6277759
Kek, true. Magna Mater protagonist powers are too stronk. our sister was the same way at her Yuri Girl Academy.

>>6277760
>You should go after Justine. This might be a good chance to speak with her
Is SHE the familiar face that will betray us?

>>6277760
>You should go after Justine. This might be a good chance to speak with her
I assume she has a heretical past from what the Facilitator said to her. Perhaps she has some unique insights on how this group will operate

Also rare for our enemies to move under moonlight. I guess they are just misled humans.

>>6277760
>You should go after Justine. This might be a good chance to speak with her

>>6277760
>You should go after Justine. This might be a good chance to speak with her
Moonlight Shard is our ace, our signature item (outside of Wave Sword)

>>6277760
>>You should go after Justine. This might be a good chance to speak with her
it sounds like she's had enough Calamity go through her to render her relatively hidden from the godhead. That sounds like something useful to know for later.

“Stay safe,” you tell Elle, brushing your hand against her cheek, “I’m going to try and find Justine. This might be a good chance to speak with her – assuming nothing else explodes for a few hours.”

“Good luck,” Elle replies, briefly leaning into your touch before pulling back as the sound of footsteps echo down to you.

A pair of soldiers enter the catacombs, walking past without sparing a glance your way. They enter the prison cell, leaving a moment later with a limp body held between them. You watch with a gruesome fascination as they carry the body across to one of the many stone slabs and lay it out. “Excuse me,” you call out, “You’re keeping HIM here?”

“Orders from above,” one of them answers with a grunt, “We’re hoping someone might be able to identify him. Won’t be able to do that if we burn the body to ash.”

“Even as ash, that worm would be smug,” you mutter, before shrugging and leaving the men to their work. It’s doomed for failure, but isn’t everything?

-

With most of the wounded having left the cathedral, some of the long pews have been returned to their normal spots. Justine sits in one of them, gazing up at the stained glass windows as if lost in thought. She doesn’t look around when you sit beside her, although you can see her face tighten up. Just once, you’d like to see her with her guard completely lowered.

“We must endure. No matter what ordeals we are faced with, we must overcome them. We must strain the sinews of our bodies in a righteous effort and defeat all that is laid out before us,” she quotes after a moment, “Those were the words of Saint Miriam. The “Warrior Saint”, she was called in her day. Though I have sworn a vow to Nicea, I often find myself turning to Miriam instead.”

“Sounds like she had it tough,” you remark dryly.

“Do you know how she died?” Justine finally looks around at you, the dull red of her eyes piercing through you.

You just shrug.

“She was assassinated. A great many of our Saints met the same fate – and now, it seems, powers unknown wish to see Saint Lucille follow their example,” Justine thinks aloud, “Nicea was assassinated too, if you believe the stories. She revealed her famous prophecies when she was young, only to retire in solitude as she grew older. It was only with her dying breath that she spoke another prophecy – the key, some say, to understanding her earlier words.”

“It’s a nice story, but it doesn’t feel right to me. The only one who would be able to hear that prophecy would have been the assassin themselves,” you point out, “Who were they, in this story of yours?”

“Nobody knows. Perhaps a faction within the church itself, seeking to destroy the woman who threatened to upend their faith,” the older woman suggests, “Or perhaps, as you say, it is all a lie.”

[1]

>>6277790

“I didn’t say it was a lie. I’m just not fully convinced,” you insist, before deciding to change the subject, “Lucille will be fine, you know. We’ll protect her.”

“I’m sure that you will,” Justine replies, one corner of her mouth twitching into something that might be a cynical smile, “Will you devote the rest of your life to protecting her? Never straying from her side, watching every shadow for the death that stalks her footsteps?”

Silence.

“No, you won’t,” she shakes her head, “I mean no offence by that, Master Pale. You have your own life to live. You, of all people, cannot be tied down to a life of guardianship. There will be others who can fill that role.”

“What do you mean, “me of all people”?” you ask sharply, wincing as you spot a few heads briefly turn your way.

“I’ve done my research, Master Pale. I know that you carry a heavy burden, though the precise details – I am glad to say – elude me,” she says, that faint smile showing itself once more, “You have lived a very unusual life.”

“As have you, I suspect.”

Justine tenses up, her brow dipping in a frown. By catching her off-guard, you’ve finally gained a glimpse at her true self. It’s gone almost as soon as it arrives, smoothed over and hidden behind an anonymous mask. “You are almost correct, Master Pale,” she replies softly, lowering her voice until it’s barely above a whisper, “I’ve left a very unusual life behind. Even… even the parts of it that I wish I could have kept. Is that what you wished to hear? Is that why you tasked your friend with following my every footstep earlier today?”

This time, you’re the one to hesitate.

“Ah, so my theory was correct,” Justine smirks slightly, “Your face betrays you, Master Pale. Worry not, I take no offence by it. It’s understandable that you would be cautious, given Saint Lucille’s prophecy. Even a familiar face may hide venomous fangs, but allow me to say this – I have no intention of harming that girl.”

“That’s exactly what you’d say if you WERE an assassin,” you point out.

“I suppose so. And then, if I was an assassin, I’d seek to eliminate you at the earliest convenience,” her smile deepens, “You know too much, after all.”

The way that Justine is toying with you, you sense that she’s been deprived of a pleasure like this for a very long time. Dancing around each other and trading barbs like this feels familiar, though the exact nature of that familiarity drifts just out of reach. “Let me ask you a hypothetical question, then,” you say after a long silence, “With all the experience of your unusual life, what do you think our enemies will do next?”

“They will likely come tonight, while they still hold the momentum,” she answers slowly, “And they will attack us in a way that is unlike anything we have seen thus far.”

[2/3]

>>6277790
>It’s doomed for failure, but isn’t everything?
Ah, our Bard is such a doomer, isn't he?

>>6277818

You consider Justine’s words for a long moment. They hardly narrow it down. Perhaps you can safely rule out another lunatic with a vest full of explosives, but that still leaves a lot of possibilities. Maybe she’s being deliberately vague, you wonder, as a way of telling you to prepare for anything.

“Miss Justine,” you ask simply, “Are YOU the familiar face that the prophecy warned us about?”

You had been hoping to catch her by surprise again, to catch another glimpse behind the mask. No such luck, this time. “As I said, Master Pale, I have no intention of harming the Saint,” she replies coolly, with no sense of outrage or offence, “Can you say the same? You are, after all, one who carries the moonlight with you wherever you go. Perhaps you should shine that light upon me, to see what truths it reveals.”

You hesitate for a moment, then take her advice. Drawing out the shard of moonlight, you allow the cold white light to flow across Justine. Her face doesn’t change, save for the wild shadows cast by your wavering hand.

“You see?” she says, “I am exactly what I seem to be.”

She is exactly that – a mystery, an enigma, a stranger with an “unusual” past.

>I’m going to take a pause here for today. I’ll be continuing this next Saturday, unless anything really disastrous happens over the week
>Thank you for coming out today!

>>6277846
Thanks for running!

Huh, were the effects of moonlight common knowledge? The mysteries of Justine grow ever deeper.

>>6277863
House Pale is known for their moonlight, and bard kinda flashes that thing everywhere for those who look into his current activities

>>6277864
We were showing it of to the other people on the investigation team earlier.

>>6277846
Thanks for running!