“He’ll be ok,” Sarah said, consoling Eva. “In just a few minutes He’ll respawn back on the north side of the river. The only real loss is time and whatever he has to pay to get his equipment fixed”

“I know, I know,” Eva said, whipping at her eyes roughly. “It’s not real, I know that. It’s just…”

It’s just hard to rationalize that when you could feel the sticky blood coating your hands. When you could smell the reek of decaying human meat, and every cut, scrape, and bruise hurt like they were real.

We cleaned up with some water from our canteens, and finished bandaging my wounds. Sarah was a touch concussed from her fall to the floor, and there was bruising on her ankle, but besides that, both women were fine.

I was repacking my bag, when Gerald’s corpse collapsed in on itself. In less than a second, all that was left was a pile of jewelry, coins, and knickknacks. Apparently, Gerald’s share of the zombie loot didn’t go back with him. Was what you lost random? I really wish there was a wiki I could read to understand the game’s mechanics.

I packed away the loot to give back to Gerald later, and turned to Sarah. “Do we need to do something about that?” I asked, gesturing at the scattered mound of corpses. “I think we should call it a day, but I don’t really want to fight that thing again when we come back.”

Sarah shook her head. “Even if there is enough energy left to reform the abomination, it will take at least a week to reconstitute. We will need to properly dispose of the bodies if we still want to make this an outpost, but that doesn't need to happen today.”

“Let’s talk about it with Gerald tonight. For now, let’s see if there is loot in the chapel,” I said. It was video game logic to think that a big fight meant big loot, but the pattern had held so far.

We left the pile of corpses alone. It was one thing to loot the zombies, but these corpses were a lot juicer. The zombie’s desiccated husks were far from pleasant, but were still much easier to get used to than the wet fleshiness of the abomination.

We carefully picked our way around the mound of corpses, and entered the chapel. The pews were scattered and the tabernacle was smashed against the back wall, but the altar still stood at its place of prominence. Just like the last church we had been to, deep in the Old City, the altar was split straight down the middle.

I inspected the altar while Eva went to the tabernacle and Sarah inspected the wall frescos. Again, like before, the altar crumbled at my touch. It was as if the whole stone had been turned to sand, held together more out of habit than structure.

I dug into the altar and recovered the reliquary. With any luck, the Church could turn it into a artifact like my St. Piran necklace. The necklace’s ability to render me undetectable to monstrous senses had proven invaluable. Hopefully this relic could make something just as powerful.

“I got some wine, incense, and the tiny wafer things,” Eva said. “Are they worth anything?”

“No idea,” I said. “Probably not much to your average merchant, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they could be used to grant temporary buffs or something. I can take them back to St. Paul’s Cathedral and ask.”

As Eva handed over the religious goods, Sarah inspected the altar.

“Now this is interesting,” she said, kneeling next to the altar and touching the floor. “There are traces of a powerful ritual effect running in a line to the altar.”

Looking at our blank faces, she explained. “I picked up a skill to see concentrated magic last level. It helps me examine monsters and figure out their weak spots. Concentrations of magic are almost always the most vulnerable and vital parts of a creature. Though, most of the things the skill has shown me are pretty obvious. Zombies have a concentration of necromantic energy located in the brain, oooh what a shock,” she deadpanned with accompanying jazz hands.

“But here,” she turned back to the altar, “there is a clear line of energy along the ground headed southeast. Maybe the altar was the source of the ritual, but I bet it’s the other way around. This could be what desecrated the altar, some kind of spell that traveled through the ground.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked, just to keep her talking. Sometimes Sarah needed a sounding board to work through her thoughts.

“It means,” she looked up with excitement, “that this might be the first real clue about what caused the Night of Jagged Teeth. If we can track the ritual back to its source, there is a good chance we’ll find the origin of the desecration.”

“But not today,” I reminded her. I hate to burst her bubble, but with Gerald dead and the day half over, we couldn’t afford to chase the ritual deeper into the Old City.

“But not today,” she agreed with a sigh. “The residual magic has held up for years, it will be here when we get back.”

“So back to the Bitter Flagon then?” Eva asked. “You said it was a straight shot to Westminster Bridge, right?”

Sarah nodded, but I shook my head. “We have already cleared a path from Blackfriars Bridge,” I said. “There will be plenty of zombies between here and Westminster and we’re not at full strength. It will be safer, and probably still faster, to head back north, even if it is a further walk. Besides, I want to stop by St. Paul’s.”

That decided, we made our way back out of the hospital compound and onto the street. We probably would have had time to explore the rest of the compound before it got too dark, but without Gerald, we wouldn’t have a dedicated tank if we ran into another tough encounter.

“Scott could have saved him,” Sarah said, as we picked our way through the ruined streets.

“Gerald?” I asked. It seems Sarah also had the big Crusader on her mind.

“Yeah. Scott’s got this powder. You dump it on a wound and it scabs up instantly,” she said. It was hard to get a read on the Plague Doctor, with how quiet he was, but he always seemed willing to help out.

“Maybe we can buy some from him tonight,” I suggested. Like most of the testers in our guild, Scott spent most nights at the rebuilt Bitter Flagon. The bar / guildhall had become the de facto meeting point.

Soon enough, we made it back to the bridge. A few zombies had spawned or migrated or done whatever it was that repopulated the zombies in the Old City, but for the most part, the path was clear from our trip south. In greater numbers, and especially at night, the zombies would be a greater threat, but for now we dispatched them with ease.

At the bridge, we suffered through the normal inspections and “taxes” before being allowed back into London proper. Promising to meet Sarah and Eva at the Bitter Flagon later, I split off from them and made my way to St. Paul’s Cathedral.

The huge building was the seat of the Church’s power in London, and my in-game home. Come to think of it, as a warrior for the Church, it was probably Gerald’s base of operations too. I would have to ask when I got the chance.

Back in my chambers, I stripped out of my gory armor and dropped my pack. For a moment I reveled in the weight reduction, but then got back to work. I summoned Curate Ben and loaded him up with chores. He wasn’t technically my servant, but as a curate for the church, he was basically an unpaid intern and at my disposal.

I had him relay my request to meet with the Archbishop and gave him my clothes, armor, and zombie loot. The clothes and armor would get cleaned and repaired, the loot taken to a local pawnshop and sold. It would have been more cost efficient to go myself since the Church took a cut of all profits, but the convenience was worth the cost.

I made sure to keep Gerald’s share of the loot separate. The big man would probably be fine with getting his share in currency, but you never know. Maybe he really needed —I checked the pile— a deck of marked cards or a set of silver forks. Better to play it safe this soon into our working relationship.

That taken care of, I headed to the church baths. I had a relaxing soak, and a monk redressed my wounds. Having a tenth of my income tithed directly to the Church was a bit inconvenient, but the perks were definitely nice. Eventually, Curate Ben came back with the message that I could see the Archbishop, so I dressed and followed.

Archbishop Peter welcomed me into his office with a wide smile. The zealous clergyman and I had gotten along well so far, it was easy enough to play into his “suffer not the mutant, heretic, or necromantic” narrative. I just hoped he didn’t find out about my inherited firearms. For all that he was pro violence against monsters, he didn’t care for anti-personnel weapons.

“Greetings Inquisitor,” Archbishop Peter said. “How can the Church help you today?”

Starting with the simpler topic, I pulled out the incense, eucharist wine and host, and the altar reliquary. “My companions and I recovered these items from an overrun chapel in the Old City. We were hoping the Church would help evaluate their use in the war against the undead.”

“Certainly,” he replied. This incense, when burned, will repel lesser undead. It won’t last long, or affect greater monstrosities, but it may be of some use. The sacramental bread and wine have no direct application, but the Church has a bounty on such items. It is an unfortunate reality that we cannot recover all the holy objects left behind in the Old City, but we will pay for any that you do manage to bring back.” He took out a dozen shillings and passed them over the desk.

“As for the reliquary,” he continued, “let’s see what we have.” He opened the heavy box, and took out a small painting. It was about the size of a locket, and like my St. Piran relic, covered in glass. The image depicted a woman holding a small urn.

“A third class relic of Mary of Magdalene,” The Archbishop said. “Not as powerful as a first class relic would be, but still useful. It could be crafted into a defensive talisman or a penitent cross.”

“What are the benefits of each option?” I asked.

“The defensive talisman would protect the wearer against possession or mind controlling effects. It wouldn’t be totally immunity, not with the limited amount of power, but it would be a significant boost to one’s Will for the purpose of fighting off those effects. The penitent cross, when worn, would amplify feelings of guilt and regret. It would drive the wearer to go to confession. Only once confessed would they be able to take the cross off, and give it to their confessor.”

“So I would place it on a sinner, to help convince them to repent for their misdeeds?” I asked.

The Archbishop nodded. “And once recovered by the confessor, it would be delivered back to you.”

I thought about the options. The cross could be very useful in my work as an Inquisitor, but had some limitations. I would have to force my target to wear the cross before it did anything, either by deceit or by violence. If I already had them in a position where I could force them to wear the cross, I had plenty of other interrogation options. Also, I doubted the cross would work on the Milladen. From what I had seen of the parasitic monsters, they had no notions of guilt or regret. With no feelings to amplify, the cross couldn’t drive them to confession.

The defensive talisman on the other hand sounded very useful. Possession and mind controlling effects were usually pretty rare in games, but were always devastating when they showed up. Having an ally suddenly turned into an enemy was basically the worst thing that could happen in combat. Even if it wasn’t perfect immunity, it was a very appealing option.

“I think the defensive talisman would be more useful at this time,” I told the Archbishop.

He nodded and placed the painting back in the box. “I will have the Church craftsmen prepare it as soon as possible. Is there anything else I can help you with, Inquisitor?”

“About the Milladen threat. With the Decoction Killer dead, my purpose for being in London has become nebulous. What would the Church have of me?”

“I have contacted Rome about the situation. Until the Milladen threat is resolved, you will stay posted in London. Without the Decoction Killer’s testimony, the Church’s hands are tied. We need to know the extent of Milladen activity before we can execute a full scale inquisition.”

“We could raid the horse track, send them all back to the outer darkness.”

The Archbishop nodded, a gleam in his eye. “If you wish to lead a raid on the track, the Church will support you. We cannot mobilize all our forces, there are restrictions on the Church military north of the river, but a small strike force can be arranged. That said, only wiping out that vile den will not be sufficient. There could be more incursions, and we don’t know how far the secular government has been corrupted. We need proof of where the Milladen came from, and how far their influence has spread.”

“Can we take the Assistant Commissioner in for questioning?” I asked. “We know he is involved somehow.”

“Not without proof,” the Archbishop said, shaking his head. “We don’t have the political capital to put a State official to the question just on your word.”

“Alright,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll figure something out. Let me know when the strike force can be prepared. The sooner we take the race track off the board, the better.”

The Archbishop agreed, and we ended our meeting. I didn’t get all the answers I wanted, but at least it was something. Maybe the Milladen base would have more leads for me. For now, it was time to meet my companions at the Bitter Flagon.