Ralph asked about Daskus before leaving the infirmary. The next in line to the house of Bloodbeard was resting comfortably and wasn’t accepting any visitors at this time. Ralph passed the house attendant Breem on his way out. Breem was followed in by fully armored house guards. There wasn’t anything Ralph could do about it, so he proceeded to meet Sophie at the guild in town. Typhus’s shadow-self gave him basic directions from the Temple of Mantarok.

He emerged from the two story hallway leading out from the infirmary into the cathedral. It was enormous, with balconies and at least forty rows of finely crafted benches upon first glance. On the opposite side from him was another hallway with a sign above the entry way reading barracks. To his right was a raised platform with a well-muscled Deep Dweller at a magnificent forge. It seemed the flames were white hot, but no heat reached Ralph’s skin. The beard on the Deep Dweller was long enough to dip into the forge as he reached over to grab another glowing ingot but to Ralph’s surprise it did not catch on fire. The whole building smelled of burning coals and rang with the sound of the smith’s hammer.

“Are you here to fight or to worship?” asked a nearby priest of Mantarok.

“I’ve just recovered and I’m due to meet a friend at the Adventurer’s guild. I was marveling at your church. The walls are covered with various weapons and the stained glass shows images of great battles. There isn’t anything like this back home,” answered Ralph.

“Weapons and war go hand and hand, my child. Let us not disturb the master of house Smitehammer any longer. He worships harder than anyone else at the forge of our lord. You can tell by the color of the flame how steadfast is his devotion to Mantarok. Do you need an escort to your guild? I understand you’ve recently been inflicted with quite the curse,” asked the Deep Dweller priest.

“No, thank you. I have directions,” Ralph said as he turned to leave the ringing of the hammer fell silent.

“Wait. Sit.” commanded Magrumin Smitehammer from the forge of Mantarok.

Both Ralph and the Priest were shocked, then the hammering continued. They headed over to the nearest pew and sat simultaneously. The forge was a good hundred feet away and the smith was feverishly working. Ralph couldn’t comprehend how their discussion was overheard. Now that he was looking right at the Sovereign of house Smitehammer, he noticed his head was bald and his beard was had four different colored metal bands wrapped around it down the length. The beard was majestic and reached almost to his navel. After another hour of waiting, Magrumin placed the sword he was making into a tub of water. There was a great gout of steam that plumed up. This was followed by the sound of powerful hands slapping together to clear any remnant suit away.

Ralph was beside himself. It was obvious the elder Smitehammer wanted to talk to him, but he couldn’t fathom why. The priest next him hadn’t said a word the whole time they sat there. He just clasped his hands together and prayed over the proceedings. If Deacon was here, he’d be even more worried than he was right now.

“You, come up here,” Magrumin commanded and pointed at Ralph.

Ralph hopped up to his feet as if he was given an order by superior officer. It was instinct and he didn’t know why. Covering the distance in short order he stood before the anvil that served as lectern of this religion. This close he could see Magrumin’s left eye was a glowing coal ember. Not just the color of one but an actual glowing coal in his eye socket. The skin inside the socket showed signs of scorching but the damage did not reach the rest of his face.

“I am the one who broke the curse on you. The great Mantarok came to me in a dream the day before you arrived. He told me saving you would help save my city. I’m not fool enough to question the gods, but you owe me some answers. What do you know?” asked Magrumin.

Ralph launched into everything he knew from the threat in the ocean to the goblins that walk around in the day. He spoke about his subclass and how that helped him get a blessing from Mantarok himself. Ralph even regaled him the quest Mantarok bestowed upon him. All the while steam continued to rise from the sword in the water and a crowd had been gathering in the church.

“Show me this Hallowed Blade,” Magrumin insisted as he jumped over the anvil and walked twenty paces before turning toward Ralph.

Ralph ran his fingers over the hilt of his blade. The leather wrapped hilt calmed him as the familiar feeling brushed against his skin. His eyes met Magrumin’s, and he lifted an eyebrow to ask if they were actually doing this. Magrumin just let his hand hang loosely at his sides and lifted his chin. Ralph drew his blade left handed in one swift motion as holy light enveloped the blade. It then shot out towards Magrumin. The instant before it hit, Magrumin lifted his right hand and caught the arc of light. It stopped dead in his grasp. Then Magrumin squeezed down on the strike. It shattered into motes of light, but he still had some of it in his hand.

Quickly Magrumin moved to the cooling sword and thrust his hand into the boiling water. There was a flash of light that emanated from the blade and all the steam stopped billowing from the tub. The gathered crowd erupted into praises for Mantarok and Ralph just stared at everything that was happening, mouth agape.

“I’ve never seen anything like that. How did you catch the holy energy?” Ralph asked, forgetting his place in these proceedings.

“Once you reach level fifty you can choose your own Chains of Power. Mine is to strengthen heroes for their journeys,” Magrumin replied as he pulled the sword from the water and began to attach a hilt to the end.

“That is a magnificent weapon you crafted Master Smitehammer,” Ralph said as he squeezed every piece of discipline out of his body in an attempt to not grab for the sword.

“Your strike was weak because you were funneling tier three Holy energy through a tier one Magic weapon. I’m surprised the sharpening spell on that sword still functions. You need to switch enchanters. This sword has been forged with your connection to Mantarok. Take it. He wanted you to have it,” Magrumin said as he gently handed it over to Ralph.

“I don’t know what to say… praise be to Mantarok who guides our strikes,” said Ralph as he turned to the assembled crowd.

“Praise be to Mantarok who armors our souls!” they all responded per tradition.

Turning toward the Descend Road, Deacon noticed a small fruit stand. He bought some fruit to eat now and some to stuff in his bag for later. The road down shouldn’t take him all that long to traverse. He kept thinking that something would pop out at him to cause trouble at every alley way, but the travel was uneventful. When he came to a crowded intersection, he just used Spectral Jump to clear the congestion and keep moving. After about a half hour he found himself at the base of the cliffs. Now to head off toward the property he gave over to Frankilo the newly minted High Priest of Cheshire. Deacon decided to take advantage of his high speed and lack of endurance bar. He sprinted the whole way.

Shocking was the only word he could use to describe the sight before him. Originally it was a large manor with a wrought iron fence surrounding five to six acres of land. Now the fence was gone completely, and a full racetrack had sprung up in it’s place. Hanging from the second floor of the sprawling manor was a large image of rolling dice. Deacon assumed this was the chosen symbol of Cheshire at this house of worship. That’s when he heard horns announcing the call to post. Deacon jogged up to the nearest wall and ghosted his way through. On the inside there was coin changing hands rapidly as people wearing rags and some in overalls placed bets on the next race. Several windows still had lines and on the second story balcony he could see Frankilo in his Cheshire styled robes nodding down at all the people.

“Last call for betting. Be blessed by Cheshire himself if you win the trifecta!” Frankilo called out to raucous cheers.