Chapter 16: The City of Flesh

"An end to your vacation."​

Weaving in an erratic path behind several homes, Father Wilhelm takes you down the road, carves through the back of the city, and arrives at a terribly dark, dilapidated portion of an old ruin. Fastened to it is a pack horse, meant to further imply your faux position as a noble. Everything you're carrying is reallocated to the beast of burden, and you introduce Ray to the creature with as little fuss as you can manage.

Before changing, you insist that Father Wilhelm keeps his back turned ("to keep an eye out for any passersby"). Though he teases you briefly about your shyness, you tolerate the bullying as best as you're able, and hold your modesty's ground.

This really shouldn't come as a surprise.

There's enough in the way of lace and fasteners to make the leggings and tunic sit correctly on your thin frame. Fastening the fur-lined cloak about your shoulders conceals the bagginess of the sleeves and the way that your bone pokes against the cloth about your shoulders. You suspect that you pass for someone presentable, clear your throat, and ask for Father Wilhelm's appraisal.

His smile and relief is so intense that you both immediately set back off.

"You'll still want to keep your hood up, of course."

"Mercy, Father Wilhelm, I am so tired of—"

"I don't mean any offense! Father Anscham, you simply are too recognizable in a holy city. If I may be so bold—" The man at your side makes a point to look you up and down (you recoil) as you walk beside each other.

You cut a significantly taller image than him. The cloak and finery paints a far more gallant and imposing silhouette than his modest robes.

It isn't lost on you that he's plainly admiring how much nicer you look. "Don't—"

"No, no, you need to hear it."

"I really don't, Father Wilhelm."

"Suit yourself! Don't be surprised if you hear it from someone else!"

His grin persists as you make your way out of Wearmoor.

The evening passes by uneventfully. You permit Ray to run ahead, to get out some extra energy out under the stars. For all the time you spent at your parent's home without attending to him, he seems delighted to be back out on the open road.

The air is clear, your breath is cold, and you know without a doubt that Worship must be on the horizon.

Under the cover of night, you cross out of the village's borders— avoiding the last of the Eventide as best as you're able. Father Wilhelm reassures you constantly that he's alright to hold off on making camp. You strongly suspect he doesn't trust the last unprotected areas of the countryside to rest for the night, and neither do you.

Not wanting to cause the man any more trouble than he's already exerted on your behalf, you press on into morning. The sun is coming up over the horizon as you and your companions look upon the first proper bridge you've seen in months.

It's a humble wooden drawbridge, nestled deeply into the surrounding walls. Watch towers and no fewer than a dozen men decorate the defense. The former are well maintained, and the latter are still bleary with sleep. Some of the guards by the river look to still be boys, though there are several men atop the nearest tower.

The morning light is too stark to make out any of the more distant forms with any clarity, but you can tell their lack of interest at a glance. In fact, no one pays you, Ray, or Father Wilhelm any mind as your mundane forms approach.

The priest runs ahead with your pack horse. He makes an obvious spectacle of insulting the boys at the bridge for questioning the business of a member of nobility, while coin changes hands. He silences them entirely after a matter of moments.

You keep your head down, praying that no one gets a proper look at you as you keep Ray close to your side.

Mercy, it is a blessing to never want for eye contact, isn't it?

It's hard to not suspect what an imposing image you make next to Father Wilhelm's disheveled and travel-weary form. Ray could easily be mistaken for a hunting dog, and you are terribly proud of him, as you keep him restrained and beside the pack horse without so much as a word. Despite you keeping your eyes downcast and your hood over your face, your gait remains upright, steady and entirely respectable after a lifetime of training.

The charade continues as you cross the Eventide, pass through the first of the defenses, and enter the City of Flesh.

Music

The walls of Beorward can't conceal the peaks of Calunoth in the distance. It was far too difficult to make out the holy capital under travel by night, but by the light of day, the uppermost reaches of King Magnus' church pierce the sky.

Cutting through segmented farmland, re-purposed stone, little streams, and proper irrigation takes you into Beorward's outskirts proper. Pebbles crumble from the ruins of forgotten cities. Old timbers of wood creak in the frigid wind. Running currents sustain countless plots of land, their owner's homes, and all in dedication to Agriculture.

It has your heart in your throat. You're so proud of your people and their continued survival, despite all odds.

There's sign of outbreaks in the city. Even on the furthest reaches, you see men at work. They're setting to removing broken stone, tending the last of the fields, and clearing the worst of any new destruction. There's dried blood even this far out. The crimson and faded brown stains bits of the walls, where the farmhands have been too busy with their own work to be concerned with keeping up appearances.

The age of the stone— and of the carnage— is still reassuring.

The morning passes. The sun climbs higher above the city. Mercy grants little relief from the cold.

Blood grows more abundant as you approach another major checkpoint. The sound of running water is carried under the stone, and over it is revelry. On the other side of the defense is an unnerving degree of merrymaking. Hundreds of people cheer, dance, and there is so much business that you can't make out a single conversation.

The Harvest festivals haven't stopped, even in the face of certain danger.

The deeper and higher wall before you promises far more scrutiny than what you've previously encountered. It's lined with dozens of armored and armed men. Father Wilhelm's commitment to shielding you is so commendable that it's all you can do to hang back and let him speak on your behalf.

"Business, from the capital."

There's a scratch on a beard that has likely never been trimmed. The guard's accent isn't from around here, but he looks as worn as the walls he's defending. "We 'aven't 'eard any word—"

"I suppose clergymen come by every day, to fill you in on our business?"

"I don't s'pose not, but—"

"And I wonder— how many noblemen have the dignity to not cane you, for speaking so out of turn?"

Instinctive fear and deference forgets the spear in hand. "Oi— no need for any of that, now—"

"Oh, no, I do insist."

You cringe as discreetly as you can.

Father Wilhelm looks directly to you. "What do you say, sir? Your generosity is truly unparalleled—"

It doesn't escape you (to your enormous disdain) that more coin is changing hands.

"Though I need not remind anyone..."

"Now, now, no need fer any of that nonsense! Right along, come right along."

Your frown is extreme, hidden as it may be under fur and silk. You pass along with Father Wilhelm, Ray, and the packhorse into the city.

The priest fires another apologetic smile to you. He draws close, and quickly refastens anything and everything he can to the beast of burden. "Stay close. Don't use any names until we get to the Church of Flesh."

Crossing beyond the intense security at the gate and ignoring the murmurs of the guard, you keep your eyes down for a few more blessed moments.

You suspect it might be a threat to your safety to ignore what's happening around you, and command Ray to stay by your side as firmly as you're able. He's whining from the noise and so many strangers, but obediently hugs against your legs with each subsequent command.

The bustle in the street is immediate, and contrasts sharply with the quiet of Eadric. The streets are so congested with the comings and goings of the last of humanity that you really don't know what to do with yourself.

You settle on pouring your hooded eyes over every last brick and beam. The ruins are the foundations of every city in Corcaea. Here they are staggered. Wherever a preexisting structure hasn't been utilized, new life has blossomed. Densely packed wooden houses, shops, and hundreds of people rest atop the ruins, are built into them, and make the most of the daylight.

Bartering, begging, prayer, and endless revelry takes place in the streets. Green ribbons adorn the braids of girls and their mothers.

It's felt like the celebration hasn't stopped since your last prayer to Agriculture.

Though your fame and position in the Church of Mercy is concealed, many men and women on the streets take notice of you, regardless. It's no doubt due to the extreme wealth your clothing indicates. Several immediately move to approach you, but Father Wilhelm— for his obvious divinity— happily places himself much closer to you than would normally be appropriate.

There's multiple whistles, catcalls, some disparaging remarks about two men traveling together in close proximity, his disregard for your own station, and you try to tune most of it out. The cracks of blue, and so much obvious association with the Church of Dream curtails all but the most desperate beggars.

You can't really look away from the lingering destitute.

There are so many who can't be protected by the Church of Mercy. Who never make it under our roof... or who are too discreet about their ignorance of the Gods to seek Their blessing.

Eadric has been under my protection for years, now.

I pray it is still a fairer city than this.

Father Wilhelm is right beside you— eager to continue your guidance. "With the festival? It should take no more than the rest of the afternoon to reach the Church of Flesh. It's been a few years since I last visited, but I remember the streets well enough. We should have only a few more checkpoints to cross. I'd prefer to not waste any more time than we need to. We're playing with fire."

With a simple nod in acknowledgement, you do everything in your power to stay close beside Father Wilhelm. Carving through mobs of bystanders— ignoring their hooting and hollering, while dodging the scorn thrown your way— is all more than you bargained for.

At least no one seems to recognize me.

The downtrodden, the missed festivities, and the surrounding area are rapidly forgotten. You leave it all behind at a breakneck pace, thanks to the priest who has guided you across the country without issue.

By the end of the day, the revelry fades into the background, and you come upon the most heavily defended walls of Beorward.

Contrary to the usual gates upheld by the common men, you're shocked to see ten priests of the Church of Flesh standing together. They're adorned in robes of red. All have varying degrees of modification to display their devotion and Flesh. They proudly showcase shorn sleeves, fitted boots, bare chests, and painstaking devotion to the God of Musculature.

Your skeletal figure squirms under your modest and ornate disguise. It's a battle to lift your downcast eyes, so the green settles on only one of the figures before you.

A young blonde man approaches you and Father Wilhelm. The sleeves on his robes have been ripped off. The veteran clergyman is easily twice as wide as you are, thanks to his rippling frame. Every movement he makes echoes with obscene strength.

The hem of his practical robes— despite their garnet hue— are further stained with a different kind of red.

Blood.

There is a weariness in his voice, though his words are as welcoming as you could hope for. "Right. Father Friedrich is expecting you both."

​

The absolute lack of an explanation or so much as a name plants hesitancy in the back of your mind. The unusual guard cements it.

You glance to Father Wilhelm, but he's kept a straight expression and a relaxed frame. Even in the face of so much unusual behavior, he's unwavering— so you continue to accompany him and the clergy without any complaint.

The situation does not improve as you approach the other nine clergy and guard. Everyone remains eerily silent. The absolute lack of any proper welcome, acknowledgement of your station, or even a comment on your attire is starting to set your hair on end.

The explanation produces itself soon enough. The moment you've entered the innermost walls of Beorward, you're greeted by the wreckage of countless buildings. It's a familiar reminder of the state of affairs. Long, straight, stone-paved streets are practically empty. The courtyard is surrounded by clergymen who are attending to the dead and wounded.

Through the streaks of viscera and piles of congealed flesh— beyond the sight of demons smeared along the ground and so much death— there is still hope.

This section of the city must be in the process of isolation. The festival has been a distraction from an extremely recent outbreak.

There are plenty of intact structures. The buildings here are finer than those near the outer walls. Fine, multi-storied, wooden homes stand as a testament to a more advanced age. The walls are high, and where there is no rubble in the road, there are trees and beds of flowers.

The Church of Flesh looms on the horizon. Its barracks, training grounds, and sprawling courtyards for assemblies and mobilization hit you hard. There is no sign of any stained glass or finery. Nothing like the King's church in Calunoth, or your Church of Mercy. It's armed to the teeth, nestled between the moat that has been painstakingly maintained.

The back of the castle sits on the edge of a sheer cliff, leading down to Eventide. Father Friedrich is responsible for the men on the ground in Corcaea, and almost all of the country's armed forces. His church seems to be placed to flood even the countryside with his works at a moment's notice.

As you approach the church, the cries of wounded and dying men become far more evident. The attack must have taken place no later than a day prior. Those still calling out for aid are outside, away from the interior of the holy building.

They don't want to risk having anyone activating the Catalyst within the Church's walls.

The veteran clergyman, his nine companions, Father Wilhelm, Ray, your horse, and you come to a complete stop outside of the doors to the Church of Flesh. It's a typical drawbridge, but the underside is adorned with spikes smeared with blood. The colossal entryway is so heavy that it would easily take a dozen men on the other side to lower it.

There's a moment of hesitation. Your steps slow.

Everyone's continued silence, the utter lack of any information, Father Wilhelm's visible apprehension, and the cries in the distance make you certain of only one thing:

Coming here has put an end to your vacation.