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7/19/2025, 4:53:55 PM
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]
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]
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