Session 05 A Prayer in Ruins

At dawn, you and your Father scale the hill ahead. The night passes without incident, no rustle in the grass, no flames rolling over the crest, and, most importantly, no return of the creatures your Father called goblins.

"What if they really were goblins?" You shudder at the thought. Goblins belong in low-level RPG encounters, not in real life, not close enough to stab you. You touch your side and then your chest: nothing, no wound where the "goblin" stuck you. The clean skin makes the idea of it being a dream all the sweeter, but the bandage on your Father's arm won't let you. The attack wasn't a dream, nor was your Father's reaction. That was the most unbelievable part. You'd never known your Father to be the violent type. Brash, loud, and even overwhelming, sure, but not violent. You think back to what you know of your Father's history. You know he served in the U.S. Army, deployed in WW 3, and even saw combat, but he was a medic. Every story you'd heard painted a picture of someone dragging wounded behind cover and cracking jokes while patching them up, not someone who'd actually engage in combat, and yet the image of your Father delivering the devastating blows was fresh in your mind. The sun rises while you're lost in the loop. Its glare punches past the bushes and straight into your eyes.

*AH—*

You squint against the light. You've never been this sun‑sensitive before waking in that forest.

Your Father rouses, ready to scold you for letting him sleep, then thinks better of it. He flexes his fingers one by one, testing sensation. Then he takes a breath.

"Well, here goes nothing," he says, bowing his head. He prays for healing. As he finishes, a faint yellow glow seeps through the bandage. When he unwraps it, the skin beneath is whole.

"So it worked after I rested… Did it just need to recharge?" he wonders, turning his arm to the light.

"Not sure how we'd test that," you say, settling onto your pack.

"I could think of a few ways," he says, resting his forearm on the sword hilt. "We could stab each other and see how many times I can do it."

"Can I veto that idea?" you say, hopping off your bag and taking a step back.

"No need, I'm not that desperate," he grins. "Besides, I'm sure we'll get all the explanations we need just over that hill… assuming at least a few people survived." He shoulders his pack and gestures for you to do the same.

You leave the brush and climb. At the crest, the smoke finally resolves into a village, or what's left of one. Thin chimneys curl from burned‑out homes. The ones still standing match the ruin you camped in. Faint shouts drift up the slope as a few people shamble through ash.

The scene is enough to send chills down your spine, and then a breeze lifts the smell.

*HURK* *gag*

Before you know it, you're on your hands and knees puking your guts out. Once, twice, and then you lose count. Only stopping when acid rises from your stomach and up your nose, searing your nostrils just enough to dampen your sense of smell.

"Better now?" your Father calls, his face carved from stone.

"Does he not smell that?" You wonder.

"I did the same thing the first time I encountered it," he says, offering a hand.

"Encountered what?" you ask, taking his hand and rising to your feet.

"You don't want to know, it'd only make it worse," he says, looking down the hill. "Come on, let's see if we can help… or even speak to them," he says, starting down the hill.

"What do you mean by 'if we can speak with them'?" you ask, hurrying after him.

"Well, who's to say we can? Sure, I speak fluent English, Spanish, French, and Japanese, but who says they will? Maybe they speak Russian."

"Why would they speak Russian?"

"Maybe we're in Russia."

"Are there 'goblins' in Russia?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe," he says casually. "God only knows what the Soviets were doing in the '50s."

There's no gate at the outskirts, buildings just beginning without a border, and you pass a heap of char and splinters. A man trundles a wheelbarrow of half‑burnt sticks to the pile, dumps it, and turns back toward the village, never looking your way. Your Father catches your shoulder and leans close.

"Let me do the talking," he whispers. Then, calls to the man in a hospitable, if loud, voice. "Hail, good sir," he calls, lifting a hand in a wave. "How hast thy day found yee?"

The man stops and turns, letting you get a good look at him for the first time. His clothes look like something out of a medieval manuscript. His shirt had more patches and rags than anything else, and his knee-length shorts looked like they had been pants, hastily cut down to fit. It was hard to tell the material or color, though, since he was blanketed in soot from the top of his sweaty forehead to his bare feet. His bloodshot eyes were his only color, a piercing red amid a sea of black. He looks at you and your Father over, lingering on your Father's red cross. The layer of soot makes his expression hard to read, but you catch a definite look of confusion.

"Well, shoo y'all folks must be from pretty far aways, ain't neva heard nobody talk fancy like that, no sire." You're frozen in place, eyes wide and jaw to the floor. Even your Father is flabbergasted. His was the accent of a NASCAR fan from rural Alabama, not someone in medieval cosplay. While you're recovering from the mental whiplash, your Father hardly misses a beat.

"Err—yes. We are weary travelers who suffered an attack last night as well, by the same band of vile friends as ye. Pray, tell, where may I find one who leads so that I may have counsel?"

"Well, I can tell you're friendly enough," the man drawls, squinting. "But I ain't got a clue what you just said. It might be best if you talk to Matt; he knows how to deal with fancy talkin' folks. HEY MATT!" he calls, and a short man with a walking stick turns the corner. Soot paints his pant legs, but above the knees, his clothes are immaculate compared to the other man's.

"I told you it's Mayor Matt now, Scott," he snaps over his shoulder.

"Got some visitors we do, fancy folk from the way they talk."

The short man, evidently called Matt, steps past Scott and looks you both over from head to toe. His gaze fixes on the red cross on your Father's chest as he leans on his cane.

"Be ye Seekers or of the Church?" he asks, voice softer than before.

"Seekers?" you wonder, but your Father speaks before you can.

"Truly I tell ye: I seek only to do the will of my God," he says, raising a hand as if swearing an oath. The gesture seems strange to you, but Matt's face eases, and he smiles.

"We weren't expecting you so soon, though we're in no position to reject a blessing from the gods," he says, pointing his cane down the street. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you to our Temple. Shoulder Nala will want to see you." The conversation moves too fast for you; by the time Matt begins walking down the street, you're still fixated on Scott's accent. Only a soft pat on your back breaks your daydream.

"You heard the man," your Father says with a smile. "Wouldn't want to keep Shoulder Nala waiting."

"Who's that?" you ask in a hushed whisper.

"I guess we'll find out soon," he whispers back. As you follow Matt through ash‑coated lanes, the smell from earlier thickens until you cover your nose.

"Seriously, Dad—what is this smell?" you whisper.

"Like I said: it'll only make it worse if you—" He's cut off when a bandaged man staggers into your path. He's taller than Matt, though he walks with a limp and his arms are wrapped in bandages. Despite this, both his clothes and bandages are torn and covered in ash. He grabs Matt's shoulders and speaks in a hurried voice.

"Matt, Matt! Anything new? Did she come over the hill, or—or—or—did you find her in the field, or—"

"William!" Matt barks, knocking the bandaged hands away. "I already told ya, if I find anything, I'll tell ya. Right now, I need to get these folks to Nala." Matt makes a well-placed strike to the bandaged man's knee, causing him to stumble over and fall against a wall. Matt walks past as the man pants, looking down at his trembling hands. You can't stop staring until your Father nudges your shoulder and tilts his head. "Move," the gesture says.

As you pass, William reaches out and clutches your Father's tunic with both hands as if catching a fly.

"Please, sir, please. You're going to Nala, so that means you're of the church, right? That sword on your back, you must be a Paladin. You've come to help us, right? Yo—"

*Conk!*

Matt strikes the man on the head with his cane, knocking him into the ash.

"Don't bother them," Mat snaps. "They're here upon request from Shoulder Nala, and I won't let some traveling used‑goods salesman keep her waiting." He lifts the cane and scoffs at the black smear on it. "Sorry about that," Matt apologized to you and your Father. "He's no one of importance. Pay him no mind." Matt turns and continues down the road as the bandaged man holds the spot where Matt struck him.

You're about to keep following, but your Father lingers. The man sits up and pulls a hand away from his head, revealing a new red stain on his bandaged hand. Your Father kneels, then tears a clean strip from the man's bandages, and presses it to the wound.

"He called you William, be that your name?" he asks as he works.

"Yes," the man says, his eyes wide, as if he can't believe his eyes.

"I want to help you, William," your Father says, guiding William's hand over the strip. "But I must learn what is happening first. Have patience, and I shall do all I can. Hast thou the patience?"

"Y—Yes," William nods, vigorously shaking his head.

"Excellent," your Father says, helping him to his feet and patting his shoulder, before hurrying after Matt.

"Please hurry," William calls. "I don't know how much time she has left."

The back alley lanes open to something like a town square, or the remains of one. Bodies in sheets line the plaza in careful rows. Everyone you see is covered in ash, bandages, or both. Men with spears stand at the two remaining stone buildings' doors while people shuttle half‑burnt logs, plants, and buckets of water. By the well, a line of children waits as women ladle soup and hand out bread.

"We've got the fires put out for the most part," Matt explains, threading toward a large stone hall. "Shoulder, Nala's been busy at the Temple tending the wounded. Poor woman doesn't think she's sat down all night. I hope you can give her some help there if nothing else."

At the steps, the two spear‑bearers stiffen their backs and spears. One has an arm in a sling, while the other has a chunk taken out of his helmet.

"Has she left?" Matt asks once at the door.

"Not through this door, sir," the guard replies.

"Good. See to it no one else enters so the clergy and I can have some privacy," he says before leading you through thick wooden doors.

Inside, the Temple has been converted into a makeshift hospital. Benches have been shoved aside to make room for rows of sheets filled with groaning bodies. A scorched wall looms over a few burnt pews; the rest hold the less‑injured. Men, women, and children move with bowls and cloths, washing their cheeks and feeding them sips of soup.

Matt brings you to a corner where a veiled woman kneels over a sheeted form.

"Shoulder Nala," he calls, as you approach.

"Matt," she sighs without looking. "I know you're trying to take charge, but I've already told you: I'm doing all I can." She stands and turns. "I've already used my miracles for the day, so—" She stops mid-sentence, and her eyes lock on you and your Father.

She's a small woman, robed in a white tunic that's been stained black up to her knees and red up to her elbows. Her straight black hair is tied back, and a black kerchief hides her brow. Her blue eyes are nearly purple from the near-bursting vessels and black bags underneath.

"Oh, you brought guests." She says, wiping her face, which only serves to change the grim on it. She gathers her skirt and curtsies with all the grace of a board. "I am Nala, Shoulder of the Lord of Compassion, acting head priest of this Temple to the Seven Virtues. Excuse my imprudence, but I don't recognize your crest. Which Lord do you serve? Even if they be not of the Seven, their blessings would be appreciated beyond words."

"Lord of Compassion? Seven Virtues?" Your confusion continues to grow as you encounter more strange titles and names people keep giving, and your Father's seeming understanding only serves to make you feel more disconnected. You sigh, ready for your Father to take it all in stride and go along with the insanity like a fish to water, but this time, he's being uncharacteristically silent. You lean to see his expression and find his eyes bursting from his helmet and his jaw unhinged from his face.

"NO—" he blurts, drawing every eye to him and shaking the temple stones around you. He follows with a coughing fit, bending at the waist and showing his mouth into his elbow.

"Are you alright,' Nala asks, stepping closer with an outstretched hand. He raises a palm to stall her, thumping his chest twice and clearing his throat.

"Not necessary, thank you," he manages at last. Once recovered, he touches his right hand to his left shoulder and gives a shallow bow. "Though I serve a Lord unknown to you, he has indeed sent me that I may aid you to the best of my abilities. And this is my son, traveling with me," he adds, pulling you in close, you close. "Just go along with it, I'll explain in a minute," he hisses in a tone leaving no room to argue.

"Son?" Nala repeats, trying to peer beneath your hood until your Father steps between you.

"Yes," he insists with a broad smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "His heritage may be unique, but rest assured, he is blood of my blood, bone of my bone, as surely as I am a servant of my Lord."

The air grows tense. Nala glances past you to Matt, who plants his cane with a mild scowl.

"If this Lord you serve be unfamiliar to us, might we have a demonstration of his power, to learn how your miracle may be best used?" His tone is courteous, but the threat lingers just below the surface.

"But of course," your Father says, releasing your shoulder. "His blessings are continually revealed to me, but I'm best at healing. Bring me your six most critical, that I may pray for my Lord to heal them."

Matt nods, and Nala snaps into motion. Soon, six people wrapped like mummies in bandages lie before him.

Your Father kneels, clasps his hands, and begins to chant just above a whisper. Nala, William, and everyone else watch intensely. As minutes pass, you hear the sound of metal feet stepping up the stone steps outside.

"Okay, Dad, what's the plan?" You think, mentally preparing to run when nothing happens. All the while, your eyes are locked on your Father, waiting for him to give a sigh, a wink, anything to hint at the plan, but it never comes, only more chanting.

At last, his eyes snap open. His fingers move—forehead, chest, shoulders. "AMEN!" he declares, the word echoing in the silent Temple, snapping everyone from the lull before. Silence follows. No burst of light. No shifting dust. No glittering breath.

You see a guard's hands tighten on spears. William lifts a hand from his cane, but a different hand rises from the row. Sheets slide as they sit up, fingers fumbling at the bandages covering their face. They begin unwrapping the bandages, pure white layers giving way to red and black, until finally, skin is shown. It's an older boy, younger than you by the looks of him, and he isn't alone. One by one, the six lay out and begin fumbling with their bandages. Behind them, Nala claps a blood‑stained hand to her mouth and gasps. Cries and praise flood the hall as loved ones rush to them.

Your Father stands and walks straight past the healed. He neither shoves nor slows as they paw at his cloak, only stopping before Nala and William. "I trust you're pleased with the demonstration?" he asks, with a smug, yet genuine smile.