Session 6: A Game of Cat and Mouse

Your Father stands before Nala and Matt, arms stretched in theatrical benediction. His helmet hides his eyes, but the self‑satisfied smirk would shine through a meter of steel. For a moment, no one speaks. Matt and Nala's eyes are so wide they might pop. Finally, Nala clears her throat and speaks. "A thousand apologies for any doubts I may've harbored in my heart," she says, placing a hand over her chest. "Your arms and armor gave me the impression you were a holy warrior with healing only of the hand. But to think your Lord also grants you miracles of the second circle—more than I expected." Admiration drips from each word. Her eyes soften, and a relieved smile overtakes her face. "You may not be what I envisioned when I prayed for help. Still, who am I to deny this village the aid it so desperately needs? If you're willing to provide it, that is."

"Sister, it would be our pleasure," your Father responds smoothly, lowering his arms before turning to Matt. "I intend to begin immediately, but we'll need a few things before we set out."

"Set out?' Matt begins, but your Father steamrolls the question with a salvo of his own.

"First, intel," your Father says, unleashing a barrage—numbers, composition, weapons, approach, timing, and more. Questions pour like machine‑gun fire. You stare, amazed at the relentless pace. He barely seems to breathe or pause to think, yet each question lands as if read from a mental checklist he knows intimately. For every answer Matt forms, four more questions replace it. Only when Nala touches his shoulder does your Father pause. "Perhaps this conversation would be better had behind closed doors," she says, glancing at the newly healed, who still embrace their loved ones.

"Ahh, of course," your Father concedes, tapping his helmet as if he's just remembered. "Loose lips sink ships," but his smile doesn't dent Matt's grave expression.

"To my office, then," Matt says, turning away; his cane echoes in the temple with each step.

"Lead on, good sir," your Father replies, following. You bring up the rear. Matt guides you across the ash‑coated square to a half‑collapsed building, which you suspect is the remains of a town hall. From outside, the damage is unmistakable—the left half all but burned away. The interior is no better: charred walls, caved-in sections of roof, and areas where only foundation stones hint at what once stood. Down a hall crowded with crates and boxes on both sides, Matt leads the way. Barrels, pots, and banners stack in haphazard towers, all precariously piled, ready to topple at a tap. Near the end of the hall, he pulls a key from his pocket and opens a door, revealing a small makeshift office.

"Sorry about the mess. This was once a storage room," Matt mutters, ushering you into the room. An old, worn desk and two rickety-looking chairs are the only furniture, surrounded on all sides by boxes and other random items that cling to the walls like vines. The only light comes from a small, cloudy window on the wall opposite the door. "The actual mayoral office was on the other side. All ash now."

"I'm sure that's been no help in trying to rebuild," your Father says as he lowers himself onto a chair. When the wood creaks under his armored weight, he immediately rises again, opting to stand rather than risk breaking the chair.

"In more ways than anyone expected," Matt sighs. He settles behind the desk. Ink bottles, quills, wax, and stacks of paper cover its top, leaving little to no open space.

"Yes, it must be quite difficult to send requests for aid without the mayoral seal," your Father says.

Matt nearly jumps from his chair, eyes wide and mouth agape. "How did you—" he splutters, stopping himself mid-word, then straightening and steadying his voice. "What makes you think that?"

"Well, these papers look like drafts of the same letter—requests for aid to the Magistrate of Tio," your Father observes, pointing to a corner stack and tilting his head to read. "Why rewrite the same petition over and over unless you're trying to phrase it in a way that doesn't require a seal?"

Sweat beads at Matt's brow as he meets your Father's gaze, refusing to look away.

"Unfortunate that the mayoral seal burned when your office went up in flames," Matt admits.

"Then why not use your personal seal?" he presses, pointing to another letter on the desk. "Like on this letter to the…Seeker’s Guild?" He plucks a half‑buried sheet free. "Surely, if you noted the loss, the Magistrate would understand." He plants both hands on the desk; the old legs creak and almost tilt the desk with his weight. "Unless your personal seal carries no authority… because you aren't, in fact, the mayor."

Silence stretches. Matt looks up at the armored man, who is leaning over him, unmoving, his eyes fixed on Matt's. At last, Matt exhales and leans back, breaking the tension.

"You're a sly one to pick that up after just arriving," he remarks, rubbing his brow.

"I prefer 'observant,'" your Father counters, leaning up from the desk and returning to the chair. This time, he commits; the chair groans but remains standing. "Anyone could see this office was staged before last night, too well supplied to be thrown together between bucket lines. Though there's no way for me to ascertain the specifics unless you tell me."

"So where does that leave us?" Matt interlaces his fingers. "You've shown miracles, but you've also avoided naming your god. Perhaps it's one frowned upon by the Church of Virtue?" He leans forward, tongue silken and sharp. "I may not pull the Magistrate's cord, but the attack killed the previous temple priest, Hand David. Shoulder Nala has already sent for aid. What a shame if an inquisition party were to deem you a heretic for your son's… impure blood," Matt says almost pleasantly. Your ears and the hairs on your neck shoot up together. You may not know what he means by impure blood, but you know a threat when you see one—especially when it's directed at you.

"Indeed, a shame," your Father replies, his cheer still in place. "Which is why the goblins will be dealt with promptly, and we shall be hailed as heroes—making any attempt to label us heretics… unpopular."

They stare, weighing each other for a long moment. The cat and the mouse trade places every exchange—sometimes, every sentence. Finally, they strike a deal. You and your Father will hunt down the goblin camp, destroy it, return any supplies, and free any prisoners. Publicly, you'll credit Matt, claim he masterminded the plan, and allow him to seize the title of Mayor. In return, you'll have access to the town's meager stores. He'll write you a referral to the guildmaster in Tio. Apparently, he and Matt were party members years ago, and the guildmaster owes Matt a debt. With Matt's introduction and the merits of single-handedly exterminating a goblin camp, you should be eligible to join as full members, skipping the initiation ranks entirely.

Once the details are ironed out, your Father wastes no time. He milks Matt for every ounce of information he's worth. Matt can't answer every question, but the details he shares paint a grim picture. Two to three dozen goblins attacked near midnight, armed with torches, blades, clubs, and a few bows. No mages were seen. They seemed to focus on the storehouse. A half dozen women and children were initially taken prisoner; two of them were later found in the woods—dead. You can't imagine what fate awaited them that they’d choose death in the forest over possible rescue later. The town managed to capture one small goblin, but so far, he has yielded no useful intel.

Regarding reinforcements, Nala has already sent a request for aid from the Church of Virtue through divine means. Matt had also intended to use his debt from the guildmaster to fast-track a quest. Even though neither was expected to arrive for days, your Father seems intent on being gone before the inquisition arrives.

The longer they talk, the less you understand. Questions keep coming: What is the Seeker's Guild? Why would the goblins take prisoners if they were already stealing supplies—wouldn't prisoners just eat up more? What's the Church of Virtue? Why is your Father so intent on avoiding them?

As their conversation continues, you try to interrupt with your own questions, but can't get a word in. Even as the two men shake hands, agreeing to their arrangement, your mind is stuck on one thought: "Why is your father making a deal with someone he clearly doesn't trust?" You can sense his suspicion from his choice of words and his tone. Matt, on the other hand, is calculating—a flicker in his eyes hinting at hidden motives. Despite these misgivings, both men end the exchange with a handshake and forced smiles.

"Are we really that desperate?" you wonder before your Father grabs your shoulder and pulls you in close.

"Now, time for some explaining." His whisper sends your heart beating out of your chest.

"Finally, answers!" you think, half-dragging your Father out of the cramped office and into the hall for an interrogation of your own. He stops you, turning back to Matt, whose cane is already tapping as he walks.

"Don't suppose we could borrow your office to strategize before heading out?" Your Father inquires, a twinkle in his eyes. Matt stops and eyes him, a small, sly frown forming on his lips.

"If it were that easy to snoop through my affairs, I'd have been dead decades ago," he counters, pulling the door key from his pocket. Your Father is silent as you exit the room, only muttering as you reach the front doors.

"I suppose we could just speak outside, could refill water from the well, and..." he begins, only to open them and see a crowd standing outside.

"There he is!" a man shouts.

"That's him—the one with the red symbol on his chest!" a woman cries.

Your Father yanks you back inside by your hood. His left arm pins you behind the door; his right hand already grips the greatsword's hilt.

"Great. Now we have to deal with a mob," he mutters.

"Come out!" the crowd demands, only tightening his grasp on your shoulder.

"Come out so we can thank you." His head jerks, and he goes eerily still. You look up and see genuine shock in his face, like when Nala introduced herself, but there was no quick recovery this time. Footsteps rush up the stairs before Nala bursts in, face red, breath short.

"I had almost dispersed them," she pants. "I knew you'd need time to prepare and was trying to keep them from crowding you, but you had to pop out at the worst moment."

From behind, the tapping of Matt's cane picks up speed as he arrives from the crate‑cluttered hall. "Shoulder Nala, what now?" He asks, face twisted in a scowl as he peeks outside. "The whole village is out there, don't tell me the monsters—"

"No," Nala says, steadying. "They intend to thank our new ally for saving those six. I'd told their families my miracles were spent, that without divine intervention, their lives were forfeit. Now they think he's some kind of divine messenger."

"After a stunt like that, I'm surprised you held them this long," Matt says, pulling back.

"I tried explaining it was only a second‑circle miracle," Nala adds, glancing to your Father with a sheepish look. "Not that it wasn't impressive, only… far from the Virtues' deeds."

"No offense taken," your Father says, raising a hand. "I'm acutely aware of my gifts and their limits. I am but a slave to my Lord." Nala tilts her head at the phrasing, then lets it pass.

"I take it you three reached an agreement?" she asks.

"Yes," your Father says, stepping from the crack. "And it requires more… discretion than this."

You peek through the crack for the first time. The sun instantly lances your eyes, forcing you to step back into the shade. It may've only been a moment, but you saw them. More people pressed in the square than you thought lived here; a few have bandaged limbs, and all have ash on the cloths and faces. The others discuss an exit strategy as you rub your eyes. There's no back door to use, and your Father wants the miracles saved for goblins, not a public spectacle. You take another step back, and your foot clips something. Wood snaps, and you drop into a dense, chalky ash plume. You sit up in a coughing fit, looking at your surroundings. You see your Father, Matt, and Nala through a hole in the wall. It doesn't take you long to realize you’ve fallen through a wall and into a scorched room. You look around, noting a smashed-in window with another building right next to it. “What about this room?” you ask. “We could jump through that window and hide in that building.”

"Great thinking, son!" your Father barks, slamming fist to palm with a clang. "And if we collapse this room, we can use the ash as a smoke screen." He leans his head into the burned side room, the ceiling half collapsed already, his smile growing wider with each passing second. "Then we hide while you two disperse the crowd, gather some supplies, and head out. Does anyone have issues with this plan?" You've grown used to his hair‑brained schemes, but this is a new tier altogether. Matt and Nala are left with gaping mouths.

"Absolutely not!" Matt tries to shout, but only stumbles from his lips.

"Glad you agree," your Father says, nodding as if blessed. He snatches your sleeve and hauls you along. "Tell them we've already left," he calls, already turning into the side room. It's impossible to guess its original purpose; the only clues are the charred remains of furniture clinging to the corners. Another burned shell of a building sits just outside a smashed window, creating a small alley.

"Through the window, across the alley, and into that building," your Father says, shoving you faster than you can process.

"What is he-" you think, but he's already moving. Steel scrapes free as he draws his greatsword and stabs the tip into a ceiling beam. A waterfall of ash pours from the stab and continues as he forces the blade across the ceiling and wrenches. The second bite finds lath; a line appears, then widens as the weight gives. He begins sprinting towards you, and the rain of ash turns to falling lumber as the whole room collapses. Your Father doesn't falter, pressing his sword so hard that it seems that only the occasional beam knocks the sword back and keeps it from coming down on top of you. You've no choice but to run, faster and faster, to the window. You duck as the room collapses; a beam kisses your hood and shakes the ground behind you. The air turns to chalk. Glass scrapes your cape and hood, followed by dirt as you roll onto your feet. Right behind you, your Father isn't nearly as graceful. He mistimes his leap, half tripping, half smashing through the half wall and landing flat on his face.

*CRASH*

The room comes down just behind him, ash billowing up like a chimney. You cover your mouth as the ash rushes for your mouth and nose. A hand grasps you, pulling you to your feet. "Onwards," your Father says, dragging you along.

"I'd better get some answers in here," you think, shaking his hand free and following behind.

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