Chapter 2: Beyond Our Borders

"A land of demons."​

Father Friedrich completely fades from sight. A thin trail of red smoke billows from around the corner as evidence of the man's immediate invocation of Flesh. It's a certain sign of how dire the situation must be.

The last time you prayed to the God of the Material, it was also to protect the lives of others. To stave off dozens of demons.

It nearly broke your mind.

No matter how much of a blessing my pain may be, I have a duty to uphold. I have to protect myself. I can't let all of Father Wilhelm's efforts go to waste. Not now.

Though your curiosity is limited, even your most honest inclinations can't ignore the room you've been left in. Alone and with no one but your dog, you fall into old habits, and read. There are dozens of packages littering his office. Labels display the names of countless families. Though the vast majority are of nobility, one of Father Wilhelm's cigar packages is among the items closest to the table. The box is unopened, and there's a very fine layer of dust on it.

With a frown, you turn your gaze away from the boxes of finery and to the many maps littering the table. Most of them are incomplete, and are hand-written by men who could not possibly be cartographers. The work of Father Friedrich's soldiers are pieced together, painting an inelegant portrait of the countryside— and more outbreaks of demons than you know how to wrap your mind around. Though there are smatterings of outbreaks to the east, and throughout all of the cities, the bulk of them come from the west.

You've spent only a fraction of your life in the Doorway, but learned more than any man could possibly fathom.

Corcaea is, first and foremost, a land of demons.

Something catches your eye beneath the patchwork of maps. There is a single, enormous expanse of parchment. It's obviously Father Friedrich's work, for how much more concise it is. While the terrain makes little sense even to your trained eye, the craftsmanship is competent enough to bear closer scrutiny. The names littering it align with your own research, but the ones you are unfamiliar with raise so many questions you scarcely know where to begin.

Link to Map

The colossal expanse of mountains to the deep south, the complete absence of allies, and the implication of two continents you did not even know the existence of has you reeling so hard, you don't dare to pull away.

How little do I know?

I'm widely regarded as a scholar, and so much of this is foreign to me. Father Friedrich left this in plain sight, and none of these countries— or anything about them— are common knowledge. Nothing that isn't neighboring us, at least.

Is the Church of Spirit hiding even more than this? There's so much empty space here.

How little does even Father Friedrich know of the world outside? How isolated are we? We have enemies on every side. Could any of us possibly survive an excursion alone, outside of Corcaea?

To even venture into the ruins in our own land can destroy the strongest of men. I know what my venture did to me.

Are there other human civilizations beyond our borders?

There is a deep itch in the back of your mind that wants to copy down the map in full. You do the next best thing, and spend the rest of the ten minutes committing every last coastline and ridge to your excellent memory.

Footsteps come from down the hall. You make no attempt to hide your scrutiny, or do anything more than inhale as much information as you possibly can. You're acutely aware that this may be the last time you are truly alone for a very long time.

Cyril returns with his retinue, all control and discipline. His long and thin ponytail scarcely moves as he rapidly approaches.

Your heart skips a beat. There's new blood on all of them. Luckily— thanks to your expertise— you can instantly tell that none of them are injured.

Father Wilhelm appears behind them. For all of the cracks of blue in his skin, he is truly a blessing. The priest tries to reassure you regardless, calling down the hallway, "Father Anscham! We're alright, no need to worry. I see you've been busy, too!"

With a flinch, you try to gauge if anyone approaching room pays any heed to your name. Every one of the priests of Flesh doesn't seem alarmed. Either a lifetime of repressing outbursts has trained them to temper their response, or they legitimately don't care.

As laid back as he is, Cyril has obviously been assigned to speak primarily to you. You can't help but wonder if he's being tested in some capacity, or if his equally ill-fitting station in the church is meant to make you feel more at ease. His informal mannerisms stave off the majority of your insecurity as he raps on the door. "Knock, knock."

"What—?" You turn your back to the maps, and get a good look at everyone that piles into Father Friedrich's office.

Three of them wait by the door. There seems to be only four in the entourage of Flesh, now, and every man opposite you has a weapon of some sort. A sword and shield, a spear, an odd stretch of metal over two pairs of knuckles. Father Wilhelm and Cyril are almost bare-handed, but their holy symbols are evident. A simple crescent moon on a strand of silk is about the neck of the former. A wooden needle on a silver chain adorns the latter, who is also holding your mace and shield.

"Time's a wastin'." The blonde shrugs. "You coming to help, or what?"

"You— you couldn't have been fighting. The wounded, then?"

Father Wilhelm offers you a weary smile. "Yes. It seems like a wasted effort, for how many more are coming in. Our efforts may be necessary. Are you— would you be alright?"

The look in his face says something along the lines of 'you look like death warmed over at best, and I'm deeply concerned one more fight is going to break you completely. Give me literally any excuse and I'll get these priests off your back.'

The complex smile persists, strained as it is. Everyone's agitation is equally evident. Either these men need your aid desperately enough to not care to conceal you, or they're simply trying to be polite. It's very hard to tell.

Utter determination paints your grimace. The door has remained open, and the cries in the distance are unmistakable. "The Church of Mercy did not raise a coward."

The statement is meant for Father Wilhelm, but you mean to reassure every man in your presence. A few strained glances are directed at you.

"It would still be prudent for me to not be a distraction." You cross the room, take up your mace and shield, and ask as politely as you're able, "if it is at all possible, may I borrow a spare set of robes?"

Father Wilhelm seems amused, but the priests beside you take the request with utmost seriousness.

"Yes, Father Anscham," the elderly priest near the door replies. He speaks in such a deep voice, it takes a moment to register his meaning. "That would be wise. Just a moment."

The man's black hair— shortly trimmed, streaked with gray and blood— doesn't shift as you're looked up and down. It's hard to not cringe at the inspection, even though it's abundantly clear he's merely trying to deduce your size.

He breaks into a run down the hall, and reappears moments later with linen undergarments and three sets of crimson robes. There's also a length of rope. He beckons for you to follow him to a spare room, and you make the quickest work possible of following him.

There's no measure of prayer that can stave off your discomfort while the veteran clergyman makes a point of helping you put on the best disguise you're able. You keep your back turned to him the entire time, with a hand to your Relic, praying that he doesn't recognize how unusual the item is.

The linen goes on as quickly as you're able, though it's all far too loose for practicality. There is no comment, no complaints, and nothing but silent respect for your modesty. It seems he intentionally picked a far larger size of vestments to better conceal your emaciation. In moments, there are knots of rope around your sleeves and waist. The majority ties up and emphasizes the extra robes draped over your trousers and shirt. It creates an illusion of bulk, for all the fabric in between.

Though the priest doesn't say a word, there's disdain written all over his face. It's impossible to ignore that he could fit his hand around your upper arm with ease.

Flesh has forsaken me, for how badly I've neglected and abused myself.

By the time you're done, you're as red-faced as the garments you're wearing. For the few weeks you've been pushing yourself to your absolute limit, it will likely be months before you resemble anything in the way of normalcy.

Pulling up the extremely lengthy hood and draping your pallid face in shadow, you thank the man profusely for his help. He gives you a strange look as you take up your mace and shield. "How...?"

"How— how what?" you balk, as your weapon and defense are being intensely scrutinized.

The priest seems to remember himself, though he's still looking to your wasted muscle with utter disbelief. "Nothing, Father. We had better get moving."

He can't believe that I can even carry Yech's gifts. The man may not recognize sorcery when he sees it, but there is no reason for so much blasphemy. I will find a way to make amends. I will not disgrace Flesh's works any further.

As you both rejoin the collection of priests, they seem itching to move. You usher Ray to your side, and Father Wilhelm pulls up the rear as you all wordlessly set out.

The priests of Flesh do not interfere when your fellow church leader comes close enough to speak discreetly. His whispers likely only conveys a fraction of what he wants to say.

"I apologize. You should have had fairer warning. Father Friedrich never received word that we were coming. I thought—"

Your blood is already pumping hard, as you all pick up your pace. "He seemed quite alright with our presence here, Father Wilhelm." Timidness is rapidly leaving your voice from the promise of putting your work to use, and the prospect of doing what you truly do best. Your study. Your passion. "You have done more than enough to grant me rest. We have business to attend to. We will see to it."

The priests ahead break into a run, robbing you of any further speech. It's an enormous relief to be wearing typical linen and wool again, while you follow hot on their heels. Fire comes from your anticipation for battle, rather than heavy furs and silk.

Yet your mace and shield weigh heavy in your hands. The priest's observation was fair, and the items are still infinitely lighter than they should be. An untrained eye couldn't have been able to tell, but Yech's enchantments on the items have persisted long after you've left his side.

The screams are not going anywhere. It's drowning out the best of your thoughts, with the knowledge that the sound is coming from the interior of the Church of Flesh. Though the cries were muffled by the thick stone and countless beams of wood around you, they cannot be ignored as you all break into the main hall.