The travelers from Earth sat silently in the small kitchen of Mikhail’s chapel, hands fidgeting and feet tapping as the large priest rummaged through cupboards and shelves.

What a weird thing to call ourselves, Sam thought with a sigh. “Travelers from Earth.” How did I end up in a situation like this?

Eventually the priest sat down with a pitcher of water and a board stacked with ham, cheese and bread, and placed it on the table. “Eat,” he said, as he grabbed the table to lower himself into the one free chair. “You’re all tired, and I doubt you’ve had anything to eat in the last two days. We can talk after.”

Though Sam’s stomach all but leaped at the sight of the food, he let the others go first. Instead, he studied Mikhail as they snatched at the bread and meat. Whatever the old man knew would be useful, but he hadn’t forgotten how quick he’d been to bring up violence. Even now the sword sat at his hip, plain and unassuming and deadly.

Mikhail’s eyes met his. “Well, aren’t you going to eat?” he demanded. “Fool of a boy. You had your arm reconstructed from little scraps of torn meat, and you haven’t eaten all day. Your body will be starving for sustenance. Eat, already, instead of staring at me.”

Sam averted his eyes, cheeks burning, and looked at the board. A lot of the food was gone, but there was enough left for him to eat generously. Dangerous the priest might be, but he wasn’t stingy with food. Mikhail was right, he was starving. The simple bread, meat and goat cheese were the best things Sam had ever eaten.

“So,” Camille began as Sam finished clearing up the board, “against my better judgment, we’re going to rely on you. Are you going to try to ‘smite us’?”

Mikhail snorted. “You insolent brat. I probably should, shouldn’t I? No, I don’t think so. The lot of you don’t look like demons to me, for all you might be using High Speech.”

Kaisei fiddled with his shirt collar, fingers quick and jittering. “Erm, you’ve said that several times. ‘High Speech.’ What does that mean? Haven’t we just been speaking English? Why would we be demons for speaking English? Also, why do you speak English? And also, why...”

Mikhail swiped his hand through the air in a swatting motion. “Enough, Burn it! I liked you better when you were quiet and intimidated. This language you refer to as 'English' is High Speech, the language of the Gods. Only they and their Angel are allowed to speak it. Some high ranking priests might learn to read and understand it, but if someone were to speak it, they would be either a heretic or a demon. And seeing as you lot are clearly not from around here, that would make you demons.”

“But you’re speaking it!” Kaisei protested.

Mikhail snorted, leaning back into his chair and folding his arms. “I did also say that I wasn’t the most diligent with doctrine.” A hand reached up to stroke his beard. “Of course, supposing you’re not demons, I have many questions about where you came from, and how you came to be here.”

Sam and the others looked at each other uncomfortably. Ever since the first wolf attack, they had avoided bringing up the specifics of how they’d ended up on the hill with the stone circle. The circumstances had simply been too bizarre to discuss. Knowing that they were in a different world ironically helped explain some things, but the core problem remained the same.

“We have no idea,” Camille said, voicing the group’s thoughts. “None of us knew each other before this. Hell, none of us lived anywhere close to the others. We’re all going about our day, and next thing we know we all wake up on a hilltop. And here we are.”

Mikhail leaned in. “A hill, you say? That hill, did it have a ring of carved standing stones, with a pillar at the center?”

Camille frowned. “Yes, it did. How did you know?”

Mikhail leaned back, and his hand returned to his beard.

“That... is an old place. A significant place. Some heretical cults in centuries past used it as a place of ritual and worship, though the Inquisitors wiped them out long ago. Since then, it's lied dormant and abandoned, unvisited by all and forgotten by most. Until now, I suppose.”

“So...” Sam began, “Do you know how we got there?”

“Not a clue.” Mikhail huffed. “Travel between the worlds is far beyond any mortal magic I'm aware of. Only the Angel could even come close to that level of power. But the fact that you would appear in a place such as that is... interesting.”

“But do you think we could use it to get back?” Kaisei asked eagerly.

Mikhail snorted at the question. “Unless you're hiding the lost Almanacs of Agazal in those strange pockets of yours, I find that very unlikely. Didn't you just listen to what I said, boy? I've never even heard of magic this powerful, so how would you go about weaving such a spell? No, as I see it, you're stuck here for the foreseeable future.”

Camille cursed in French at his announcement, but the other stayed quiet, struck dumb by the announcement. There was no way back. They were stuck here, in this strange and dangerous place where they’d already almost died once.

“You've mentioned the Angel twice now.” Tasha said eventually. “Who is he? Can he send us back?”

The question startled Mikhail from his quiet musings so badly he nearly tipped backwards in his chair. “Burning Hells, don't even think about it!” he said with real agitation when he righted himself. “The Angel is the Vaiia's prime emissary in the material world, second in divinity only to Her! And one of His missions is rooting out and exterminating heretics and demons! And that doesn’t bode so well for you at all, does it? No, if you've got any sense at all, you'll steer well clear of Him, and of any respectable members of the Lady's Church for that matter!” He stopped, breathing heavily, and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Fortunately for you though, He has been dormant for the past seven or so centuries, so you should be safe from His wrath. Still, He is not an option for you.”

“Wait a second,” Sam said, “you're a priest of this Burning Lady, right? And whatever we are, you're definitely supposed to be smiting us right about now, but instead you're helping us. If you got caught, you'd probably be becoming a heretic too, and putting yourself in danger, right?”

“Sam!” Camille snapped, eyes wide.

“So why are you doing this?” Sam demanded, ignoring her. “Why are you risking your life for us? Why are you going against your own Church for the sake of some strangers who, as far as you know, might actually be demons or something?”

The entire room stayed silent as they looked at Mikhail, awaiting his answer. He rocked in his chair with a thoughtful expression on his face. “For someone who shouldn't be alive right now,” he said finally, “one would imagine you wouldn't be so eager to tempt death again quite so soon.”

Sam's cheeks heated up, but before he could speak up, Mikhail waved a hand impatiently in the air. “Bah, be quiet, it is a good question.” He took out his smoking pipe from his pocket and used a candle to light it again. He took several puffs. Eventually, he spoke up, smoke billowing from his nose.

“Like I said, I'm not the best adherent to doctrine. My faith in the Lady is genuine, of course, but men are fallible. Who is to say what Her will truly is?” he took a deep drag and watched as the smoke flew up towards the room's low ceiling. “My gut is telling me you aren’t demons, and my conscience that I should help you. So what if some puffed up Church Hierarch wants to burn me alive because generations of crotchety old men in robes decided that was the Lady's way? I trust in my own way, and I'd rather be able to spend what's left of my days able to sleep at night.”

“But enough of such grim topics,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “I promised to help you, and so far all I've done is ask questions and wax philosophical. Like I said, the magic you need is beyond my realm of comprehension, but that doesn’t mean it would be for everyone. The way I see it, your best bets for returning home are mages. Unfortunately, the truly worthwhile ones like to make themselves hard to reach. So...”

Mikhail's words were interrupted by the sound of pounding on the chapel's front door, and a harsh voice boomed in Common from the other side.

“Mikhail open up you fat fuck! I know you're in there, I can smell the stench of that shit leaf you call tobacco from three valleys away!”

“Burning Hells and Nine Damnations!” Mikhail cursed under his breath, switching to Common as he hurriedly put out his pipe.

“Who's that?” Sam asked in a low voice, as he hurriedly helped the old man stand.

“A problem,” the fat priest muttered, “and if he's here, I can guess what it's about.” He looked over the group of young people in his kitchen and began cursing again. “If I catch Alder I'll rip out that loose tongue of his and strangle him with it, and rid the world of its chief fool! He probably grabbed a few cups too many at the Drunk Mason and let something slip that got overheard by exactly the wrong people!”

“Wait, are you saying they're here for us?” Camille hissed, standing. “Then we need to run!”

“No!” Mikhail snapped. “No, absolutely not! They're not Inquisitors, thank the Angel, but they're not idiots either, they'll have at least one or two men covering the other exits. No, it's too late for running. Damn it all, I hoped I could keep you hidden for a while more!”

“Mikhail!” more pounding came from the hall. “Open that door before I have Breyund bash it down and haul your fat cripple ass all the way to the Keep! You know I will!”

“I know you don't know me much, but I'm going to need you to trust me.” Mikhail whispered urgently. “Don't say a word you don't have to, whatever I say, go along with it, and Lady's sake, not a word of High Speech!”

Then he whirled away from them and hobbled over to the front door with a hurried step. He swiftly unbarred it and swung it open, even as more pounding had begun. “Ah, Captain Vigdam, what a rare surprise it is to have you gracing my chapel.” he began, his face a stony mask as he looked out the door. “Why, I don't think I've seen you here since you were just a babe.”

“Cut the banter, Mikhail, where are they?” The gruff voice huffed from outside.

“Who? My guests? Just over there, in my kitchen, eating some food at this late hour.” Mikhail said with a vague wave in the small group's direction. Camille and Kaisei's eyes went wide, and Tasha stood up, eyes darting nervously to the windows and back door. Sam fought the urge to panic, and stayed seated.

“Move aside old man,” the other responded, even as he shoved his way past Mikhail, and Sam got his first impression of man. He was built like a running back, short but powerful and stocky, with thick arms. He wore a chainmail over a thick blue padded jacket, and his hand was resting on the pommel of a sword at his hip.

Other similarly dressed men followed into the chapel after him. “Well, well, well,” he drawled as he swaggered into the small kitchen, “four strangers, unannounced and unexpected. What do you say, Breyund, Norvich spies, most like?”

“Yessir, most like,” a six-foot burly slab of a man responded as he fell in place behind the leader.

“Well, whatever you are, you'll have plenty of time to sing like summer songbirds once you're caged up in the Keep.” Vigdam took a step forward. “The lot of you are coming with us.”

“I'm afraid not, Captain. They are staying here.”

The group of armed men stopped in the doorway. Slowly, they parted as the man named Vigdam turned around to face the priest in the chapel's entrance, head cocked. “I'm sorry, Mikhail, what did I just hear you say? For a second there, I thought I heard something even more foolish than usual come out of that chubby hole of yours. Would you mind repeating it for me?”

“I said they are staying here, Vigdam,” Mikhail repeated. He stood with his thumbs in his belt. The position placed the pommel of his sword very close to his hands.

“Oh. Oh, well then, this is rich, Mikhail.” Vigdam stepped towards the priest, hand now openly gripping the hilt of his own sword. “You know, I've always wanted a good reason to show you the inside of the Keep, along with some of our famous tender hospitality, and now it looks like I've got one. Or have you forgotten? When it comes to the Empire's security, you don't call the shots, I do. And the shot I'm calling right now is that you, and those funny little friends of yours, are coming with me, now.” He drew the blade from his scabbard, and the men behind him did the same. “Under pain of death,” he finished with a growl.

“You're right, Captain,” Mikhail responded, without changing his posture an inch. “Where the Empire's concerned, you are in charge.” He stared the smaller man down. “But this is Church business, Vigdam. These are Temple Guard trainees, and they are under my authority. So either you put that toothpick away from my face and back in its sheath, or I swear to the Burning Lady and her Angel I'll be shoving it so far up your ass you'll think you were supposed to be the dinner spitroast!”

Vigdam stopped dead in his tracks, right in front of the fat priest. “What, them? Temple Guards?” He turned incredulously to the small group in the kitchen. “They're not even carrying weapons, and I don't think that one's ever lifted a third of his own meager weight his whole life!” his sword motioned to Kaisei, who flinched away from it. Vigdam scoffed. “Look at them, Mikhail, they're pathetic! This is supposed to be the Church's elites? All I see is two dickless half-men, and two pretty whores who lost their way to the brothel, I oughta – Burning tits!“

His tirade cut off with a curse when Sam had finally had enough. He didn't stand quickly. He didn't need to. He was tall enough to tower over even Breyund, and though he wasn't in the best shape of his life anymore, enough of it remained on his still bare chest as he glared murder down at the captain.

Vigdam took a step back, sputtering without finding his words as he looked up nearly a whole foot at Sam, and his men visibly tensed. Sam breathed hard, blood and wrath rushing to his head and pumping in his ears like a drum, adrenaline making his muscles sing and pushing him forward, but his brain noted that they still had swords, and he held back like a runner at the block.

The dangerous silence lasted for a few breathless seconds before the sound of laughter broke it. “Ha ha! Pathetic, he says! Half-man!” Mikhail threw back his head as he roared with laughter, wide gut jumping up and down in time with his mirth. “Ha ha ha! Vigdam, I think you may have bitten off a lot more than you can chew!”

He began to compose himself, and control his laughter down to a chuckle. “Oh Lady, I needed that,” he said, as he wiped tears from his eyes. Then he hooked his thumbs back in his swordbelt and smiled down at Vigdam. “Well, Captain, as you can see, the Temple Guard only recruits the very best. Now, if you want to arrest them anyway, go ahead! I'm sure your Commander would be most amused if you tried it, as would be my superiors! Otherwise, get your and your men's filthy asses the Hells out of my chapel.”

Vigdam's head snapped from Mikhail to Sam and back to Mikhail several times, before he finally paused and shoved his sword back in its scabbard. With a hand raised in a closed fist, his men did the same. He glared at Sam as he moved to the door. “This isn't over,” he growled.

“Oh but I think it is, Captain,” Mikhail beamed down at him. And then he slammed the door shut in his face.