Chapter 3: Father Friedrich's Work

"Deliverance begins."​

"Get them out!"

"Please, God, I can't move my legs— someone, anyone—"

"They're breaking through the courtyard!"

Dozens of men are lying on the floor, sitting, crawling, trying to recover and unable to get themselves out of the line of fire. Fire emanates from a colossal form in the courtyard.

A demon of shapeless, writhing Flesh screeches and billows black smoke. Its form is obscured by the shade, but you can see countless clergy fleeing from it for their very lives.

There is not only one demon you can make out through the narrow slits in the walls. Plumes of toxic ash floods towards the interior of the keep, and its source can't possibly be the larger demon alone. About it are at least eight hulking imps that must be immune to the foul air. More unformed demons give birth from the corpses of fallen priests.

Around and past all of the enemy, your fellow clergy tries to shield their faces from the assault. One of them calls upon the God of the Material to spare their lungs, but you cannot imagine even the invoker surviving with so little aid.

Cyril's voice bellows from behind you. "Where the FUCK is Father Friedrich?!"

You whip your head around. There is no sight of the Church's leader in the building. Either Father Friedrich located a greater threat, or doesn't realize how severe the situation has become.

A priest with his face and hands caked in blood seems to not be carrying a single weapon. He has the body of a screaming man draped over his shoulders, who runs up to the four priests of Flesh, and your dog. "YOU ALL, THERE, CAN WE GET A HAND?!"

Ray is snarling. His fur stands on end from the chaos. You command him to stay put, and run back to your group as quickly as you're able.

The blonde standing at the head of your squad immediately shoulders the wounded, and turns to make his way deeper back into the church. He calls out, "I'll be back for the rest!" and breaks into an inhuman run.

The three other priests of Flesh do not dare to give you a command or any word. The elderly gentleman (who helped you with your disguise) tears out the front door with his spear and shield at the ready. The two other men drop their weapons entirely, to better help get the wounded to safety.

Father Wilhelm looks to you in earnest. "I am right behind you."

Your command is simple, as you tighten the grip on your mace and shield. "Arm yourself."

The Father of Dream offers you an unhinged smile. "I already have."

His hands clasp the holy symbol hanging from his neck. There is a surge of blue, and a haze at the edges of the man's skin. Every crack and tear courses with divinity. It isn't blinding— not to you— but several men in the vicinity shield their eyes from the luminescent start of the invocation.

A strip of blue cloth is produced as Father Wilhelm speaks in a daze. He ties it around his eyes, seeing through the gaze of another. Paint swirls through his speech in a blinding array of cerulean and midnight. "Grant me your sight. Grant me your vision. I enter the night! Enter me. Let us Dream."

The rescue effort redoubles. A great number of priests pick up their pace, picking up and dragging fallen figures away from the entrance of the building.

Father Wilhelm's words are laced with the voice of the Gods, but they are directed entirely towards you. "I am right behind you. See to the fight. I will see to the vision. Their rest. Their respite. Permit me attend to Dream."

It's all you can do to share in his religious fervor. A brief nod and an equally unhinged smile is all he needs in reply, but you can't resist something more.

You speak not towards the mortal man beside you. You're reverent, and speak to Flesh out of respect. "Our hypocrisy ends. Deliverance begins."

Music

Ripping off a length of your robes as quickly as you're able, you fasten it around your mouth and nose, and break out into a run. Ray is hot on your heels.

Tearing away from the wounded and dying, you emerge alongside Father Wilhelm into the courtyard. The field of battle. Several priests immediately cry out, recognizing the holiness of the man behind you.

It's very difficult to see through the smoke save for the watercolor swimming through the cracks in his skin. A cough instantly forms in the back of your throat, but it matters little.

You charge into the fray.

A man wielding a sword and shield doesn't dare to take his eyes off the imp that he's solely combating. "FINALLY!"

"HELP, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THE GODS—" screams another, before an imp crushes his head between its bare hands like the shell of a nut.

The crack of the man's skull is loud enough to skip your heart, and to make your run come to a halt in the midst of the fight. You reel for only a moment.

The spray of viscera and blood that rockets from his ears and eyes is redirected and weaponized by the killer. You immediately swing up your shield to deflect a barrage of molten crimson. Brain matter and demonic influence creates chunks of charred, solid matter in the barrage, but the matte black of your shield entirely soaks up the spray.

The sorcery you wield is plain to any who may look upon it. Two priests near the front of the church dive behind you the second they recognize your protection. One of them has the remnants of a shattered shield in his hands. The other appears to be badly wounded.

With a cry against the heat underhand, you hold the defense, and command as best as you're able. "Father— see to the newly formed! I'll hold off everything I can!"

Smoke cloaks him in an instant. It seems irrational, but he carves a path as closely as he can to the gargantuan demon at the center of it all. The peak of its undulating, writhing body reaches above the peaks of the Church of Flesh.

Streaks of blue pierce through the smoke and flame, briefly revealing the base of the demon's body. It's akin to a massive, picked-over, and infected wound. The pustules and scabbed over Flesh are filled with rot, smoke, and fire.

As you're deflecting another barrage of blood— steadfastly moving forward, protecting the men behind you— a disturbing thought lances your mind.

I learned recently of demons with names. They could feel, and know, and grieve. A demon gifted me with the very weapons and shield I use now. They are not all insane—

The Father of Visions cuts around the out pour of flame, weaving between a surge of heat and fire to the fallen men in the field beyond. You see why a moment too late. It interrupts your reverie completely.

More imps are coming from around the side of the church, and it's in the same direction the cries were coming from upon your arrival.

You are not afraid. To the men behind you, you bellow, "BEHIND ME! We're getting as many to safety as we're able! MOVE!"

Smoke and flame whips past you in streaks as you sprint into the heat of battle. The temperature is increasing by the second. Sweat soaks into the cloth around your nose and throat, depriving you of the oxygen you desperately need.

For the fallen figures on the field of battle, you think little of your burning lungs. You slide to a stop, hard, right beside an inert body. It's necessary to better shield the priests behind you. They're screaming something, coughing hard, but you don't hear what they say.

There's another scream and a surge of color from across the courtyard. Through the smoke, you see that the newly formed demon beside Father Wilhelm has been rendered utterly inert. As the monster is forced into inactivity, it pools into a puddle of deep blue.

Dream, in a more tangible form.

He's breaking away. Father Wilhelm is running again, and the source of the screams behind you are made evident before you can respond to the priest's display.

Two imps charge, jumping through the smoke straight at you. The fully formed demon seems to be doing something as well. It's convulsing and contracting.

You aren't certain if your body can withstand the assault, but you know you have to try.

Through drenched cloth and growing panic, you shout to the men behind you. Their strength is something you know you can trust in. "Line up! Behind me! NOW!"

The priest carrying a shield slams himself behind his ally. With a heave, their full weight lays into you not a second too soon.

One of the imps (with Flesh like molten lead) seeps smoke out of every orifice. He collides first. A blast of darkness rings out from your shield. Along with the darkness and Yech's blessing comes sores all along its body. They burst instantly in a shower of caustic pus.

You lean into it. Heat rises to your face, for all of the acid littering your sleeve. The fabric is dissolved in an instant. No fewer than three layers of skin follow. There's a cold sensation.

Something hot. Something numb. Searing. Burning. Perfect.

It's Mercy to suffer.

To feel the Gods through your very Flesh.

You love it. You love them.

You lose yourself for a moment to bliss.

Its ally hits a second later, standing nearly as tall as you are. Knitted muscle, an absence of eyes, and a gaping mouth leers while the pus-filled creatures corpse slumps to the floor.

A cry likely escapes you for more.

The demon thrashes, shoving your shield against your wounded limb. It drags itself up along your shield, clinging onto your defense, and moves to strike.

A splash of blood streaks across your face, threatening to suffocate you for how much liquid is covering the fabric about your mouth and nose. The monstrosity is mere inches from your face, and slumps dead to the ground before you can properly respond.

One of the priests of Flesh retracts his weapon and cries out, "keep moving!"

It feels like every demon's head swings towards you as you eagerly oblige. Though the smoke is entirely too thick to tell the sheer number of enemies on the field of battle, you know without a doubt that three more are headed straight towards you.

Keeping only one hand to your shield, you let the priests behind you lean in. A broken shield comes to your side. Your mutual defense provides enough protection to take in the assault from another barrage of blood.

The splash of liquid sears onto the arm of the man beside you. A sour smell hits the air. He's screaming for fear of death, and bellowing orders to the wounded man behind him to stay back.

Said ally drives his own weapon into another attacker. Though he's clutching onto the gaping sores about his lungs, the priest fearlessly impales the enemy, all while covering your exposed side.

Your band of four cut across the field of battle, covering each other, and moving away from away from the wounded. The hope is to drive off as much of the attack as possible. To buy everyone inside a little more Time.

The demon at the center of the courtyard writhes, and lets loose a sound so horrific that you nearly drop your weapon. It's exactly like a female human. She's sobbing.

Another imp lunges straight at you. It's made entirely of veins. Balls of blood and viscera courses with lime-green toxin.

You pivot into your shield, deflecting the blow with as much strength as you can muster. Your shoulder and arm scream in flawless relief, and so much agony you can barely see.

The momentum carries through your mace, and swings through the air. Sharpened flanges mist with blood from your crimson sleeves. With a cry, you drive the weapon into the demon before you. The impact hits you, carries through your hand, into your wrist, up your arm and along your entire frame with as much force as a break.

The demon feels like it was made of metal, but you leave a colossal wound from the sheer force of the blunt trauma. Your weapon is stuck for a blessed moment. Metal. Meat. Blood splattering in thick drops onto the stone and dirt floor.

Part of you enjoys violence.

It makes you scared each and every time. You don't want to lose yourself. Black viscera sticks to your mace as you wrench it free of the enemy, and whip your gaze to the monstrosity on the horizon.

Its screeching and sobs have stopped. The pustule writhes harder. Plumes of smoke congeal and draw back into the demon, and for a moment the air clears. You desperately want to rip off the mask about your face, but something stays your hand— keeping your lungs screaming for more oxygen.

The absence of the smoke reveals dozens of wounded and dying men. The courtyard must be a hundred feet across at its narrowest. Blood streaks almost every inch of it. Though you and your allies have struck down four demons in a matter of moments, no fewer than ten more imps pour in from a distant building.

Red smoke rises.

Father Friedrich's work.

The works of Father Wilhelm covers the courtyard in between. Around the entire field are puddles of paint. The Father of Rest has halted the rising of no fewer than twenty demons. He's now facing down the gargantuan beast in the center of it all.

The monster is emitting a thick, fiery, rock-filled substance. It oozes from breaks in the giant wound, coating every inch of dirt and stone beneath it. The sheer amount of heat coming off of the material melts the very stone and Flesh contained within it.

What is this sorcery—?!

Two priests close to the demon scream in agony. The plasma and heat licks up and along their robes, in a liquid and solid nightmare. It melts the skin off of their very bones.

Screams, magma, and liquefied Flesh sticks to the inside of your skull. The smell of burning hair gets in the back of your nose and throat. Cooking fat intermingles with it, and sticks to the inside of the cloth about your face.

The men behind you are not backing up, but look to you and your defense. It is abundantly clear that they want to fight, to protect the hundreds of priests and civilians that will fall if the monster is not contained.

The Father of Dream sprints to the side of the fallen priests, keeping a wide berth from the flame. He destroys the demons' forms in an instant. You see the invocation. It manifests as a hard use of the God. Cracks are splitting down the man's body, up and along his arms, and pierces through his robes as paint pools. It flows out from around his eyes and veins, deep into the figures falling before him.

They rest.

He spins his sweat and blood-streaked hair towards you, though he is still blindfolded, and calls out. His level, distant words resonate across the field.

"Find Father Friedrich."

You're instantly and horrifically reminded of your last fight with Father Edmund. He died attempting to take on a colossal demon alone.

You have learned so much since then.

You've learned to trust in your allies. "I'll find him! COVER ME!"

The two men behind you answer without hesitation.

"Around the back— he should be with the survivors—"

"Look out!"

For all of the blood slaked across your face, the gore sticking to Ray's teeth as he keeps close beside your legs, the remnants of viscera stuck to your mace and the wave of new enemies approaching, you see little red.

There's heat and smoke so intense that you only see yellow and gold. The magma spreading from underneath the demon threatens to creep up to your defense.

You turn, barking commands to your dog and your allies to stick together and to pull away from the threat. Every attempt is made to keep your voice level. The flame that threatens to lick up and around you all scarcely matches the heat in your scalded arm, the fire in your lungs, the absence of enough oxygen, and so much relief.

You all persevere.

Father Wilhelm faces down the colossal wound of a demon. He speaks with divinity to the men fearlessly holding their ground against the same enemy.

"You heard the man. Let us grant them reprieve. Give the demon its rest."

A single spear streaks through the air and impales the demon's soft hide. An out pour of smoke, a cry of victory, and another horrendous scream lingers behind you.

You're sprinting as hard as you can, trying and failing to keep your eyes on the threat. The last of the scene you dare to glimpse is of the Father of the Church of Dream. His frame is entirely relaxed, while a swirl of blue and paint starts to encapsulate the monster. More weapons sail towards it, to grant the demon release from its waking nightmare. From the edge of the courtyard, civilians come running as quickly as they're able. A multitude of them falter on the edges of the walls and gates, unwilling or unable to enter the field of Gods and demons. More fearlessly throw spears, javelins, and even knives, doing everything they can to aid in the defense.

The two men that have fought so valiantly beside you keep your formation. The line is unbroken, and your weapons and defense are kept at the ready while you all run.

The courtyard is massive. It takes much longer than you're comfortable with to pull away from the spread of fire and the screams of the dying.

More are ahead. Imps decorate the sides of the Church of Flesh in red smears against the walls and floor. Their corpses are plentiful, thanks to the swords and spears skewering their bodies. Some look as if they had been beaten to death, for all of the unnaturally bent limbs, crushed faces and broken skulls.

The only cure is death. These demons will not rise again.

You know where your true target lies. A number of structures set away from the bulk of the Church of Flesh are under further attack.

A trail of deep red smoke rises from one of the many thatched roofs in the distance.

One of the men beside you— the one who's been fending off demons with nothing but a broken shield and humble sword— tightens his grip. The might of his exposed forearms and biceps cannot match the intensity of his grimace. "It's going to be suicide."

The wounded priest (still trailing behind you both) calls out in a panic. You suspect he doesn't have much time left. Ray's growling nearly cuts over the intense pain throughout the priest's voice, as he upholds his duty to bring up the rear.

"The bastards—! Behind us!"

Two imps have recognized your squad's attempt to pull away. They are not bipedal, but have half a dozen limbs attached to their torsos. The form must be designed for optimal movement. From their muscular appendages, acidic blood drips to the dirt and smokes as it lands. Their wounds leave a trail behind them, mimicking the flame rising from the demon they serve.

I could kill them both with relative ease.

Were they seeking safety as well?

"Ray, stay BACK! Guard!"

Viscera streaks through the air as you use your mace as a pointer. He obeys the order and your gestures without question. All two-hundred pounds of Ray's war-torn, muscular frame darts between the imps and his charge.

The priest of Flesh doesn't mind in the slightest. Clutching onto the gaping crevasse in his robes, a weary and grateful smile looks towards you.

I can return his thanks another Time.

Despite how fast you turn to the other priest, your hair still sticks to the back of your neck. It clings to your forehead, and much of the concealed Flesh below your hood. Sweat and blood threatens to suffocate you completely, clinging to the cloth about your nose and mouth. Unable to stand it any longer, you rip off the mask about your face, and toss it uselessly to the floor. The intention is for you to be heard more clearly.

Dread settles in. The priest's grimace intensifies.

The imps rush to meet you and the sword-wielding fighter by your side.

You offer only two words before gallantly rushing forward.

"Shields up."

Music

Rushing forward— right into reach of a dozen arms and legs— you keep up your defense. Neither of you need to invoke a God to strike with absolute righteousness.

A battery of limbs and hate threatens to knock you off from your feet. Black light flares forth from each blow. Earth-shattering shrieks rise from the demons before you as they struggle to rip their arms and legs free from the sorcerous shield.

There's an opening through their cursed limbs. Using all of your momentum, you swing what little weight is in you into every ounce of metal in your hands. The traction builds with your enthusiasm, a surge of devotion, and your proclamation.

"The Gods are MERCIFUL!"

The man besides you strikes simultaneously. His sword cleaves into the demon adjacent, pulling away its focus, and rends the demon just before your own blow.

Two horrific screams lance the air.

Your bash knocks the imp asunder. Your mace swiftly follows, and digs deep. Its tender Flesh is nothing like the veined demon. The foe before you writhes, as you keep down the weight of the bladed edge.

You twist the blade. Your lungs are aflame. Your very soul is on fire.

It's all for your worship of the God of the Material. Digging, scraping, you peel back countless layers of sinew. Your arm and shoulders burn not only with acid, but with exertion.

It's divine.

You swing again. It hits harder, promising the death of your flayed adversary.

The burn is so intense in your limbs that you almost can't retrieve your weapon.

You can cry out to wrench free your weapon after the contact.

You can just barely repress the moan that wants to work its way into your outcry. It takes all of your focus.

You swing again.

A thought occurs to you through your internal battle at propriety, the sweat, the scent of blood, and the tension building throughout your burning body.

Mercy. The demon may have already been dead from the first strike.

It matters little. The priest beside you clearly has less experience with the creatures. He's screaming, while two hands have wrapped around his sword to stop his attack. The metal digs into the monster's palms, and black acid flows freely, but it shows no sign of stopping. Another hand repeatedly slams and punches into the man's shield, trying to drive him back. There are more limbs picking up from off the ground, and using the priest's humble wooden support for leverage. The imp has all but climbed on top of him.

"GET IT OFF OF ME! GET IT OFF—"

Despite how exhausted your wasted muscle feels, you drop your shield to take up your mace with both hands.

No half-measures.

A grin plasters over your face. Your mace drips with neon blood, and is swung high overhead. No God works through you as you close the distance, leap, and bring the weight of all your suffering down on another.

There isn't even a death rattle. The heave and blow slams into the top of the imp's form. The smell of putrefaction hits you hot and fast now that your mask has gone. Soft tissue gives way to unforgiving metal, and you dig into it. Every blade twists with the handle of your weapon.

The movement shreds any hope of recovery or regeneration. Crimson arcs through the air. The demon's gristle and bone sticks fast to your attack, even in death.

You're jerked forward as its corpse collapses, but manage to keep yourself together long enough to wrest your mace free, and look wildly around.

The priest— clinging onto his broken shield—offers you a hand to get to your feet. He couldn't look more grateful.

You take it. Every inch of you is searing from all of the exertion, but the two of you sprint to the wounded priest. He's not beside Ray.

Your boy is growling viciously at more imps in the distance. He's trained to put distance between his object of protection and himself when necessary, and has put a wide berth between his defensive position and your injured ally. The red smoke seems to have stopped. There are very few screams on the horizon, and from behind the courtyard. Father Friedrich had to have been invoking Flesh, but there is no further sign of his divinity.

The pursuit has stopped, and the screams from the courtyard drown out what was previously a cacophony of despair.

Something is very wrong.