Chapter 7: Into the Fray

"Without hesitation."

Music

Gold flies through the air in arcs from your hands as you swing them upwards. In a surge of divine radiance, ecstasy and a blast of light, a shield drops from the very sky. It comes between the attack, the blood, and nearly four dozen innocent lives.

The door is remade for an instant. Solid light glistens against the reddened gold. Blood bakes in waves towards your foes.

The heat of your work is so intense that the men in between cry out in shock.

The sheer amount of dedication it takes to maintain the divine structure drops you to a knee. You bring your arms and hands together, close your eyes, and pray.

She's in your very soul.

"MERCY!"

The men behind you remain unscathed. You drop the defense as quickly as it came— still on a knee— trembling from the intensity of Her invocation.

Father Friedrich runs past you, wielding nothing but his fists and the might of his devotion. The hulking muscle, his broadened form, a blessing, a prayer, and a behemoth charges past the instant you grant him access to the enemy ahead.

"FLESH of my Flesh!"

With inhuman speed, his run breaks to leap clear over your heads. The man you healed previously has to duck at the last moment out of the way. He lets out a cry, but the sound is drowned out in a roar of fire and heat. An after-image of fire and smoke is all that's left in Father Friedrich's wake.

The priest wielding nothing but a broken shield and sword offers you a hand once again. You take it through your haze of divinity, and rise to your feet.

You leave behind the stables, the demon you saved, and several dozen humans who's lives have certainly been changed forever.

You and three priests of Flesh charge into the fray.

Just outside the stables lies a wall of enemies. You have to weave around the bludgeoned corpse of a demon just to get away from the door. Its body was beaten into a pulp by bare fists.

The culprit remains unscarred. Father Friedrich tackles another imp straight to the ground. Wiry sinew and blood is ensnared in a choke-hold.

The might with which he wrenches the beast's head clean off of its shoulders could only come from a God. An explosion of blood courses over the priest's form, and there is no need for healing. He moves out of the way faster than the liquid can fall on his frame. The force behind his motions rends the very ground he stands upon.

The blood in his eyes settles not on you, but on another target.

There's little time to appreciate his works. The beast of a fighter shifts his weight, and with a cry, doubles back, and hurls the corpse of the demon at one of its living allies.

The band of monstrosities lets loose a scream simultaneously, and tears their kin's body to shreds before it makes impact. Blood mists over dirt and stone.

Your own experience in combat courses through your veins. You keep slightly behind the two priests of Flesh who cannot call upon the divine. They use as much restraint as they are able— no doubt in extreme respect to all of the protection your presence gives them— while you keep a single palm outstretched.

The priest— with his broken sword and shield— cries out, and rushes ahead. His weapon slashes deeply into the torso of a demon consisting of only teeth. The humanoid form explodes in a shower of bone on solid light.

You need not run or use your material shield. An immaculate blessing pulses from the rapid beat of your heart. Every strike you feel is met with another wave of defense.

Protection flows through your veins. Their onslaught gives way before your passion.

Your allies faith is rewarded.

The clergy of combat draw the attackers away from every innocent at your back. They are not screaming, calling out, or doing more than looking to you all with reverence.

Father Friedrich stomps another head into the dirt, grinning back at you with red in his eyes. The same hue covers the rest of his hulking body.

You reflect his gaze, his smile, religious fervor, and another strike. Yellow-gold flares before the undeserving. Holy men need not fear the light of day, but every demon that collides with your defense melts before your eyes. The dirt flows with evidence of Her blessing.

The only cure runs slick under the soles of your worn shoes, and in specks along all of your robes. You look through a cascade of color to a nearly-empty street. Father Friedrich tackles the last of the beasts before him so quickly and forcefully that the sound of bone— the wet crunch— hurts your teeth.

A splash into the gold and dirt guarantees the kill. The lord of action rises, covered in smoke and metal.

There is no hesitation as you all charge behind him. Every man in your company remains utterly unscathed. Heat waves on the horizon.

The closer you approach, the clearer it becomes. The shouts of battle. Rock and flame.

It's like a Dream.

Father Wilhelm.

Sprinting as fast as you're able robs you of the ability to speak. The Goddess alone keeps you on your feet through your burning and overworked muscle. She heals utter exhaustion as best as She's able. It's a blessing to be with Her, but there are so many more that need your aid.

From the heat on the horizon, down to the courtyard rapidly approaching your view, there is fire. The congealed heat rises from plasma, rock, smoke, and more death than even you can take in. The corpses of at least a dozen men and women remain standing, lodged into the blackened, cooling edges of the courtyard. They are charred beyond recognition. Their bones, bitterly scorched skin, and protruding weapons break off into ash on the wind. Many more must have been consumed by the heat further in.

In the center of the courtyard, there is more than flame. Thirty more imps battle with dozens of civilians, the flame, and try to work their way towards Father Wilhelm.

The behemoth— the flaming pustule— is still alive, writhing and screaming. It's forced into immobility, and must be focusing all of its intent on survival. Though its scabbed exterior has been skewered with multiple weapons, it seems to be refitting and healing itself continuously. Gaping wounds reconstruct before your eyes.

The crimson ahead sears with blinding shades of blue. The wound is locked in battle with Father Wilhelm, who is removed from the magma by only a small ring of paint and broken glass. The cathedral floor beneath him is smoking— the edges of his robes are singed, practically ablaze— but the man himself appears unscathed. Both cracked hands contort with the sheer force he is trying to subdue the demon with. It looks like he could drop from exhaustion at any moment.

He is surrounded by enemies, and only a few clergy have survived. The blonde priest— Cyril— fights with his hands against four imps on the horizon. Many more corpses are at his feet. There is heat and fire in his body, smoke trailing to the sky, and a smirk plastered across his face.

The Gods need not work through only one vessel.

An elderly gentleman is beside him. Though he wields only a spear and shield, the combat veteran whips his gray-streaked hair around towards your approach. The moment of hesitation in his attack comes only as he drives his weapon into two imps simultaneously. No joy is on him. They are all fighting for their lives.

Father Friedrich charges in without hesitation. It grants unseen support— likely more civilians— an opportunity to fire from hiding. Spears streak out from the opposite end of the courtyard, though only one hits their target. A cry rises from their direction in a cheer.

Their celebration is cut short, and spikes into panic. Their efforts do nothing to halt the attack. The demon it lashed into (a network of living veins) twists away from every projectile in a macabre display of dexterity, leaps across the magma, and heads straight towards innocent lives.

You press your hands outwards, suppressing the cry that wants to follow with all of your might. You have done so much already, and continue to give everything you have.

A shield flares forth between the demon and the undefended. It halts the demon in his tracks, and pulls its ire straight at you.

Thirty imps let loose a cry, and screech with homicidal intent.

A behemoth of pus and rot suspends its flowing magma, and redirects its focus.

The leader of the Church of Dream whips his blindfolded gaze towards the Father of Compassion.

Your works call attention to the greatest threat on the field of battle.

You.