Session 5: 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 World War III, 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*

Before you know it, you're on your 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 doth this day find thee?"

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 has more patches and rags than anything else, and his knee-length shorts look 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 ways away, 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.

"Er—yes. We are weary travelers who suffered an attack last night as well, by the same band of vile friends as ye. Pray, where may we find your leader to seek 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 clergy?" 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, you see the aftermath. Fire writes its own accent. Here it lay, low and patient, under eaves. A corner post is black only from the waist down, as if it had waded into fire rather than carried it. In the trampled mud, you find one patch where the ash is strangely clean, a circle the size of a washbasin with a green smear in it that the ash didn’t stick to. You don’t touch it. A string of beads—bone, wood, something like dried seeds—threads a puddle and disappears under a collapsed sill. All the while, the smell from earlier never fades; on the contrary, it thickens until you find it hard to breathe through your mouth to avoid it, only for the taste to linger on your tongue.

"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 sinks into a croutch against the wall. He looks down at his trembling hands, panting as if no air enters his lungs. You can't stop stringing 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 holy warrior. You've come to help us, right? Yo—"

*Conk!*

Matt strikes the man on the head with his cane. The man stumbles for a moment before falling backwards into the ashes. Unlike his slow-controlled sink before he completely collapses. Before you know it, your hands are drawing your blade from your sides, only stopped by your Father holding out a hand to stop you. You look down, shocked, and the swords drop back into their sheaths as you release them.

"Don't bother them," Matt snaps, taking no notice of your actions. "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, clutching a small locket. "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, planks, 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, I doubt 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, there’s no scent of incense. It smells like boiled linen, blood, honey, vinegar, and wet leather. Benches have been shoved aside to make room for rows of sheets filled with groaning bodies. Men, women, and children move with bowls and cloths; not a hand is idle. One man shifts bodies while another changes linens, another woman wrings out a cloth before laying it on an arm that’s more blisters than skin below the elbow. The altar is the only hint that this building was ever a temple. Despite the decrepit state of the pews and people, the altar remains clean and unblemished. Laden with a cloth white as freshly fallen snow. A far contrast to the floor, where your feet leave prints in the dirt and ash that cover the stone floor.

Matt brings you to a corner where a veiled woman kneels over a person covered in a sheet. Despite the decrepit state of the other in the building, the corner she kneels in seems to radiate a stern calm. As of the chaos outside, it is being kept at bay by her gracious prayers.

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

"Matt," she sighs without looking, the calm shifting to an overpowering malice as you see her muscles tighten from under her clerical robes. "I know you're trying to take charge, but as I've already told you: I'm doing all I can.” Fatigued and irritated, the words flow from her lips as she stands and turns. "I've depleted 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 grey 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. Most striking was the pure white handkerchief at her neck, intricately folded and embroidered. Its white color is almost blinding as it seems to reflect all light like a mirror.

"Oh, you brought guests," she says, wiping her face, which only serves to rearrange the grime on it. She gathers her skirt and curtsies with all the grace of a board. "I am Nala, Shoulder of the Lord of Compassion, priestess-in-training—” she begins, stopping and glancing back at the sheet she was kneeling over. “Er, I guess acting priestess of this Temple dedicated to the god Kindness, of the Seven Virtues. Excuse my imprudence, but I don't recognize your crest. Which god do you serve? Even if they be not of the Seven, their blessings would be appreciated more than my words can express."

"Lord of Compassion? Seven Virtues?" Your confusion grows 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 like a soldier realizing he’s in a minefield, drawing every eye to him and shaking the temple stones around you. He follows with a coughing fit, bending at the waist and shoving 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. "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, Matt, and everyone else watch intensely. As minutes pass, you hear the tapping of Matt’s cane as he approaches Nala. Though they speak in whispers across the center aisle, you can make out what they say.

“Any idea what he’s doing?” Matt whispers, his hunched-over posture placing his mouth to Nala’s ear.

“He seems to be channeling a miracle of healing,” she whispers back. “Given his looks, I took him for a holy warrior and expected him to perform the Laying-on-of-Hands.”

“Do holy warriors like him receive miracles of healing?”

“They can, but the one he’s attempting is a second circle miracle; above what I can perform. Though something of that level would be trivial for Hand Ericson.” Her eyes returned to the sheet she was kneeling over when you arrived. She places her right hand on her left shoulder and casts her eyes down, a single tear rolling down her cheek. Matt places a hand on her shoulder, pats it, and draws even closer, whispering so quietly you can’t hear it. He steps away from Nala, sitting in an empty pew, and taps his cane four times in quick succession. Soon after, one of the two guards standing at the door exits. Not long after, you hear the distinct sound of metal scraping on stone. Instantly, you realize that the guard who’d left has returned with more, at least a dozen, given the number of footsteps you hear.

"Okay, Dad, what's the plan?" You think, mentally preparing to run if 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 from his forehead, chest, and then each shoulder. "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. Matt 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 Matt. "I trust you're pleased with the demonstration?" he asks, his voice hoarse and a smug yet genuine smile on his face.