Travails of the Great Church

[Teneb]

I am Father Malachai Chambet, a neophyte priest in the Great Church. I have spent the last three years of my life at the Cathedral in Holliston, learning the history, dogma, and rituals of our order which venerates all the gods. On this day, I was assigned my first task outside church grounds by the Revered Mother herself. She asked me to visit the shrine to Saint Vestiz in Dullum and perform the annual cleaning. Not a glorious assignment, certainly, but I know my duty.

I left for Dullum, a four day ride, with my childhood friend Paksennarion. She was visiting me at the Cathedral, having fled an arranged marriage in our home village. Our trip was uneventful and we arrived at the small temple of the church in Dullum. Father Thomas, the aged caretaker, welcomed us warmly and allowed us to stay the night. The following morning Paks and I set off for the shrine, a ride of several hours.

We entered a wooded area near the shrine, and almost immediately a sense of....wrongness assailed us. Soon, the horses refused to go any farther and Paks and I were forced to traverse the final half-mile on foot.

As the low stone structure of the shrine came into view, the sense of wrongness peaked, joined by a palpable sense of evil. The reason was obvious: the shrine to Saint Vestiz was covered with a scabrous film made up of every vile substance imaginable. Someone had magically desecrated the holy site.

Clearly overmatched, Paks and I hastened back to Dullum to seek the aid of Father Thomas. Unfortunately, when we returned, Father Thomas was nowhere to be found. We briefly inquired around town if anyone knew where the elder priest went, but the townsfolk proved less than helpful. Paks and I returned to the temple to search for clues as to Father Thomas’ whereabouts, or perhaps something to aid us.

The gods were smiling upon us, and I found an obviously ancient scroll hidden in an alcove beneath the altar. I was able to determine this scroll would sanctify an unhallowed place. With this weapon in hand, Paks and I proceeded with all due haste back to the shrine that very evening.

 

[Teneb]

As we drew near, Paks heard chanting coming from the direction of the shrine. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end at the sound, so I made the assumption the chanters didn’t have my best interests in mind. Paks and I briefly conferred, followed by her moving through the trees to the opposite side of the clearing from me.

I sought a vantage point among the trees and spotted two robed figures in the shadow of the shrine, and three other men standing in a rough pentagram chanting. In the middle of the pentagram, hanging from a tree by his ankles, was the comatose form of Father Thomas. Enraged, I stepped from the trees hefting my mace and shield. “Release Father Thomas and surrender to the gods’ justice!” I shouted in righteous indignation.

One of the chanters waved contemptuously in my direction and the two robed figures began moving towards me. One of their hoods slipped a bit and I caught a flash of ivory. Skeletons. These evil men were using the raised dead! My hopes for their salvation faded as bony claws slid off my splint mail and demanded my immediate attention.

I drew upon my faith and a golden light flared from the many-limbed tree embossed on my steel shield. The next skeletal attack ended just before hitting my arm, halted by the power of my faith. As I drove my mace through the spine of on of my assailants, I heard a wild yell from the other side of the clearing as Paks joined the fray. I dispatched the second skeleton as Paks downed one of the chanters. In short order, the remaining changers were down, having refused another demand for surrender. Paks suffered a minor cut on the arm, but the gods favored her and I was able to heal the wound.

Sadly, Father Thomas did not survive the ordeal. We untied him and lowered his body gently to the ground. I turned towards the defiled shrine and unfurled the scroll of sanctify; the spell flowed from my mouth of its own volition. An angelic trumpet blast broke the still air as golden dust sparkled down from the heavens, covering the structure. I averted my eyes briefly from the strong glow, turning back as the illumination faded back to twilight. The shrine was returned to its natural state.

Paks and I bundled up Father Thomas’ body and returned to Dullum for the night, and from there to Holliston to report to the Revered Mother. My heart was heavy; I had recovered an amulet from one of the chanters which indicated he was a member of the Cult of Orcus.

 

[Teneb]

The return trip to Holliston went without incident. Paksennarion and I proceeded through the city to the Great Cathedral. An odd sight greeted us as we neared the temple complex. A (relatively) young elf stood on a street corner bearing a placard stating “Rogue for Hire”. Fearing for this man’s morality, Paks and I approached him.

The rogue’s name is Secil, and he apparently had fallen upon hard times. I was concerned some nefarious organization would prey upon his apparent innocence, and so directed him to the shrine of Darmon, god of rogues (among other things) located within the Great Cathedral. Perhaps there, I told him, he could find legitimate work. Secil agreed to follow us into the temple, and he and Paks soon struck up a friendly conversation. I proceeded to give my report to my immediate superior, Father Benjamin.

Father Benjamin was, understandably, greatly disturbed by my report of Orcus cultists in the area. He assured me the Church would pursue the matter with all due vigor. It appears I will have little time to recover from the trials of the last week; Father Benjamin has directed me to deliver a message to Zorato, a city two weeks away through the Tear’s Path. This letter must be of some import, as it is to be conferred to Revered Father Desmond with all haste.

I spent the night within the walls of the Cathedral and met up with Paks and Secil the following morning. The elf rogue decided to join us, at Paks’ urging, feeling his job prospects would be greater in the larger city of Zorato. I procured horses for Paks and myself from the Church. Secil managed to find a horse elsewhere, though I am somewhat dubious; his horse bore the mark of a local mercenary group though Secil doesn’t strike me as a mercenary. Nonetheless, I barely know the elf and it would be unseemly to presume erroneously.

The Tear’s Path is so named because of the legend that it was formed by the tear of a goddess, mourning the senseless slaughter so common among the races. It is one of the more dangerous mountain crossings that I know of. For that reason, my companions and I decided to join a caravan for mutual protection. The caravan leader, a rotund and somewhat surly man, is named Master Lester (may the gods forgive me for my disparaging comments!). We set out for the long journey.

My companions and I were assigned a watch rotation, guarding the west side of camp at night. Wagons would form a circle, with Master Lester’s wagon in the center, along with a strange metal box on wheels which was easily twenty feet long. This box-wagon was a subject of some discussion among us; innocent questions on the subject were quickly rebuffed by Master Lester and his heavily armed personal guards in equal measure.

As the days wore on, routine quickly settled in. It seems only about one-third of the wagons are actually owned by Master Lester. The rest are independent merchants who pay a fee to join the caravan, much as we have. Over time, we noticed some interesting occurrences with the mysterious box-wagon. One day it began to rain, and a terrible row began within the box. After nearly fifteen minutes without abatement, I rode forward and asked Master Lester if the contents of the box were harmed by rain, indicating the noise. He grunted non-committally, and said “They’re makin’ noise again huh? I’ll take care of it”.
A pudgy man I had never seen before exited Master Lester’s wagon (I later learned this man is his servant) and entered the box through a small sliding door on the side. I heard what sounded like the cracks of a whip, and the ruckus quickly died down. When I related what happened to Paks, she was livid. She is of the opinion that Master Lester is keeping some sort of creature captive in that box, and perhaps torturing it. I admit I do not care for the man, but we are here by his good graces and I do not wish to wear out our welcome. Regardless, I assured Paks I would keep an eye on the situation, and invited her to do the same. I am somewhat surprised she didn’t draw steel on the man. Or me.

 

[Teneb]

Over the next few days there was no further sound from the box-wagon, but Paks grew increasingly agitated. She was convinced some innocent creature was being abused. Her concern, coupled with my nagging doubts about Master Lester’s character, led me to ride forward one morning to speak with the caravan leader.

I once again inquired as to what was in the strange wagon, indicating my concern about possible abuse. Master Lester told me it was none of my business, and to get back in line. His tone and general dismissal of my concerns goaded me to speak.

“Master Lester, you are the leader of this caravan. The contents of that wagon are your responsibility and none of my concern.” He nodded in agreement. “However, if I discover that a living creature is being abused or mistreated, it would be my duty to see the situation rectified. This would include the arrest, conviction, and punishment of the perpetrators of such a crime. Abuse of any non-evil creature is a crime. As the leader of this caravan, I know you will keep this in mind.”

Master Lester turned several shades paler and mumbled what I took to be an affirmative. Paks, who had ridden up behind me during my.....sermon I suppose......gave him a scowl, and then had the audacity to look smug! I certainly didn’t speak to the man because of her concerns, at least that wasn’t the only reason. I would simply prefer if she would say “I told you so”. Friends can be a headache sometimes, gods forgive me.

By this time in the trip, Secil was growing noticeably bored. This, understandably, had me quite concerned. The elf and I, while not close, have developed a friendship of sorts and I would hate to have to pull the sword of an angry guard out of his gullet. People often don’t survive those sorts of things. Paks wasn’t exactly helping matters, encouraging Secil to try and get a peek into the forbidden wagon. He decided to make an attempt that night.

I was on guard duty on the west side of camp with Secil and Paks. Secil climbed atop a wagon adjacent to the iron box on wheels. Adjacent might be pushing credibility; the gap was nearly fifteen feet. Secil planned to leap the distance, landing atop the mystery wagon and discovering what was inside. Paks was there to act as a lookout. I was there to pick up the pieces.

Secil prepared himself, and when the guards patrolling the wagon’s perimeter disappeared around the other side, he leapt. Nearly two feet short. Secil slammed into the side of the wagon, fortunately making little sound. The two guards rounded the near side and immediately spotted the elf. Thinking quickly, Secil said excitedly “Hey, did you two see that rabbit come out the other side?”

“Rabbit?” queried one of the guards. I recalled his name was George. I recalled George was not terribly bright. “I didn’t see no rabbit. Ain’t you s’posed to be guardin’ Secil?”

Nothing further was accomplished that night, other than Secil getting quite drunk and retiring to the Entertainment Wagon. Six women call the wagon home, and I try to convince myself I have no idea what goes on there. Gods grant me patience, strength, and continued ignorance.