DCC DotSK: Act 1-3

"If I can catch him in my spell, it may deter him from reading one of our names aloud!" the woman mentions, letting a wry smile cross her face at the thought of that scene unfolding so soon after the morning’s farce in the square.

So the priest of Justicia is not, in fact, named Prick. Presumably the human boy was making a joke, meaning 'prick' as a derogatory term and not merely a reference to the male member, glorious amongst the Fae and a source of great joy. The humor of these clever squirrels eludes Tyravasiel-Llir.

When Aldric mentions having slept with the crone, Ty opens his mouth with something like glee. "Did you?" he enthuses. "Fuck the village crone, I mean? What was that like? You must tell me, holy father."

The elf claps Aldric on the shoulder and urges him in the direction of the great church that, supposedly, Ty cannot see.

"You can regale me as we walk along."

"I tried to turn him from it, but he couldn’t be reasoned with. Don’t put too much stock in his protests now. He had unrivaled focus, I assure you!" Anora says to Ty, ribbing Aldric before setting off to the church with a smirk on her face.

AT THE CHAPEL OF JUSTICIA (ALL)

The companions talk as they walk towards the church, joking and smiling, a light-hearted moment that is welcome -- a moment that frankly shines like a beacon in glum, cursed Hirot. The two Thegns near the chest turn their bearded heads as they watch the strangers go, Morgan tagging along, and the doors to the stone chapel open even before any of them can manage a knock or call out.

One of the two young, robed acolytes that works with Beacom greets the motely group wordlessly, only offering them a mild expression. Behind him, everyone can see that the building is not overly large, but it is stout, pillared and made fully of quarried stone. Indeed, should a defensive stand need to be made, it looks like the chapel is second in strength only to the Jarl's great hall.

Benches line the place, but it is empty save for the other brother, who is bare-chested and busy whipping himself in front of a statue in a side alcove, and thin Father Beacom himself, who reads from a great book at the front of the church. The tome rests on a great, gilded altar, and near it a velvet curtain is pulled, keeping something from the parishioners' view.

Stained glass abounds in the place, mostly set into small, high-up windows, but the huge centerpiece behind the sour-faced priest is impressive. It overlooks the nave and therefore any gathered congregation, and depicts Justicia herself battling a monstrous devil-hound. Blonde hair streaming and armored breasts jutting, she wields a great spiked warhammer as she prepares a telling blow.

"Brother Aker has taken a vow of silence," Morgan offers quietly as the greeting at the door stretches out, threatening to become awkward.

Dufgal’s instincts kick in quite naturally and he decides that he should take to the corners and hidden places of this sanctuary given that only two souls occupy the space and at least one seems entirely self-absorbed.

Aldric does indeed regale Ty as they walk to the church. He describes, in explicit detail, the Witch's beautiful glamour that she donned to seduce him, surely making nearby prudes blush.

He also mentions the disquieting figure comprised of smoke, flame, and darkness he saw at the end. "Any notion of what that was?" he asks the Elf, for perhaps his kin knew more of these supernatural things.

When they enter the Chapel of Justicia, Aldric is quieted by its rustic grandeur. Stain glass windows? Quarried stone? Gods, if this was the kind of temple that The Bitch Queen expected, it would be a lot more work to build than he thought! He can't help but note that the devil-hound depicted in the window art surely mirrors the town's existing problem...He senses movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he looks, Dufgal has simply disappeared. "Damn, that man has a talent!" he mutters to himself.

As they approach the church, Ty ponders the Pelagian's question. A being of smoke and flame? Has he seen or heard tell of such a thing, in all of Elfland? While he thinks, Ty says, "Are you certain that the crone is not the glamour, and the lovely maiden her true form? Forest folk of great beauty have been known to walk among men in humble guises."

Not naming any names.

Then the elf is being introduced to Brother Aker, whose commitment to keeping his mouth shut immediately impresses. A vow of silence? Is it possible that this fellow, alone among his kind, has recognized the folly of human speech? That he refuses on principle to add his own chittering to the cacophony of squirrel sounds that plague the lands of men?

Tyravasiel puckers his lips, like he's sucked on a lemon of moral rectitude. He gives Aker a slow, approving nod.

"Good man. If only there were more like you."

During the worst of it, that lewd conversation that Aldric and Ty have, Morgan, red-faced, has her hands clapped over her ears. She can barely stand their lack of decorum in mixed company, and she is glad when the scene at the church turns them to new topics.

As Dufgal darts inside, moving towards the shadowy alcoves that line the small church's wings, the priest looks up from his book.

"Eh? What's this?" the bald, lean-faced man says at the sound of strange voices. "Nay!" he adds vociferously. "Nay, I say to thee! Heathens and unbelievers are unwelcome in this hallowed hall! Swear yourself to Justicia, confess your sins, accept her judgement. Do these things, strangers, and enjoy the Grace of the Lawgiver, and all that that means."

If self-flagellation, in its myriad forms, could save a village, Hirot would be safer than any other… Anora thinks, as she walks from one form of pious self punishment to another all morning.

"We need one that has vowed quite the opposite." Anora remarks to Morgan, hoping to find a loose set of lips on the church that might be willing to answer a question or three.

"And what does that mean?" Anora says, in almost a challenge. The Lawgiver had done a poor job of it for Hirot.

Father Beacom’s eye twitches at Anora’s challenge, then he moves out from behind the altar.

"It means," he begins gravely as he comes closer, halving the distance, "that you must admit to your imperfections, your petty cravings, your inadequacies. You must seek truth and expose your breast to the harsh and unyielding light of faith; faith in Justicia’s indomitable and faultless judgement. You must repent and suffer for your sins, woman. Your must drive out your demons!"

Anora hears this, but too she hears Morgan’s quiet words at her side, softly answering her earlier question.

"Brother Haams is as Aker. They both both sworn to silence, and never speak."

Trying to use the others to block line of sight, Dufgal makes his way towards the shadows of the alcoves, but the glaring judgment of the priest is so fierce that he cannot help but visibly cringe as if he had been struck. The pain seared across his neck and back of head. His memory of priest brutality from his childhood brought old wounds to fore. He stopped cold in his tracks and nearly fell forward to confess his repentance. Only the care of Brother Aldric and Lady Anora held him in this moment. He simply froze.

Dufgal, in his shame-gripped panic, falls to the granite floor and starts uncontrollably shaking. Slowly, at first a low sucking of air sounds from the heap, then a sudden powerful wailing pierces the serenity of the space. The shrill venting lasts longer than a caterwaul at midnight and then abruptly stops. The thief collects himself, rubs the snot and tears from his dirt-stained face, has a moment of crystal clarity about his belief that whatever gods may exist, they are not in this place. He flips off the preacher and stands his ground. "I’se made my peace wif my maker and you’se best do the same!"

Tyravasiel-Llir clears his throat. It's not clear to him which display was more embarrassing: Dufgal's seizure of contrition or Father Beacom's inquisitorial lust.

Must she bare her breast indeed, Father Prune?

"I believe, holy father," Ty says uncomfortably, "that Anora the Blue was asking rather what the 'Grace of the Lawgiver' means, when you seem unable to protect your flock from the depredations of this mystical wolf."

Aldric finds all of this very amusing. The majesty of this place was spoiled, the illusion shattered.

On the heels of Ty's correction, Aldric slams his oar down three times and exclaims "Shall I expose my breast as well, father?!" He then tears his robes from his sinewy frame, flying all sails to the wind. He laughs loudly, madly! He fills the halls with ringing joy, trying to dispel the sanctimonious bullshit.

"All you say is hypocrisy! You stand above others and tell us to wipe our asses clean, and claim your own puckered hole smells sweeter than a rose! Yet it is YOU who have failed your congregation! It is you who have fed your people to the devil dog, and let Sylle Ru infect the town with madness and complacency!"

His voice echoes throughout the stone hall as he reaches to grab the loyal Dufgal by his big shoulders. "This man is ten times more holy than you! All of us faced the Beast while you cowered in this hall! Grow some fucking testicles and fight instead of beating yourself off, like that dolt in the corner!"

This was rich from a man who only a day ago was thinking of skipping town to collect a few gold coins, but his nature was like the sea, ever-changing. Praise the Bitch Queen!

Anora rolls her eyes at the diatribe coming from the priest. So wrapped up in his brow beating that he had missed that Anora was asking what she would get in exchange for all the priest… eh, the Lawgiver demands.

"That all sounds very noble! Perhaps you might demonstrate… for those of us familiar with the rites. Have you done so yourself? Allow us to be your opportunity." she says, challenging the man to express his own inadequacies and all the rest…

Dufgal, full of fury at this embodiment of righteousness, felt as though every indignation he had ever suffered surged as a rebel army inside him. He will not let this man call for the thegns. He will not allow this arrogant asshole judge him or anyone any more.
He moved with precision to block the egress of the young acolyte. He brandished his garrote with intent.