The first thing Calaf did upon this third visit to the delightfully dingy Port Town was find an inn that looked like it didn’t ask many questions and book it for three days.

  For two days, he slept. Exhaustion reigned, and he’d scarcely had time to breathe since he’d last wandered through the damp streets of this seedy sailor’s port. On occasion, he crawled out of the inn’s rather mediocre and unsupportive bed to go dig up some food in the downstairs tavern, but he seldom stayed for long.

  Dreams were vivid and nightmarish hallucinations of being chased through the Port Town cisterns by some creeping fetid growth. Calaf looked down to find that he was not in his heavy Squire armor, but instead wearing a sailor’s outfit, the garb of a fair-leveled Cleric, or even a finely tailored church dress. At any rate, the rot always caught up. Calaf – or whatever poor soul he was playing in this dream-tide puppeteer show – died, but the dream would continue, his body moving though no life remained.

  Continued, that is, until Calaf was jolted awake by a piercing scream right around midnight. He shot up in a cold sweat nightly. But when he looked about, he discovered an inn devoid of anyone out and about, and streets outside so eerily quiet it was as if the port had been abandoned without him noticing.

  Eventually, Calaf settled for lying about in bed and staring at the wooden logs that made up the ceiling. While he wasn’t sleeping, he wasn’t getting more exhausted. Sometimes that was all you could hope for when your mind was not at rest.

  With nothing but time to think, the Squire’s mind turned to that status effect. Kiss-Stealer. Nobody had remarked upon it among the caravans he saved or even the familiar faces he’d encountered along the road. Maybe it wasn’t all that big of a deal.

  On the third day, having slept only out of exhaustion, Calaf ventured out of the inn to explore.

  Port Town was perhaps the one station on the pilgrimage route that was reliably busy year-round. Trading and exploration ships were constantly coming and going about the port, while the city was the church’s major lifeline to other converted regions overseas. The odd convert sailor would inevitably spread the Interface across the sea via childbirth and family formation. More than a few far-flung islands were Of The Menu, even if the church couldn’t influence these far-off parishes to enforce orthodoxy.

  Despite this hustle and bustle, Calaf couldn’t help but notice a steady stream of outbound traffic hell-bent on leaving before sundown.

  One major problem with doubling back along the pilgrimage route: the stores of Port Town lacked gear that fit his level range. Everything was a downgrade compared to his desert-cast weapon and his redoubt-forged armor. There were perhaps some lowly clerical spells he could begin investing in, but these were of little utility to one on the path of the Paladin.

  With little in the way of equipment to acquire, Calaf stocked up on food and water rations for the road ahead. He looked around for any word from the north, any rumors about what happened at the Battletower after he was sent off with Perarde, any word on Riverglen. Rumors were in short supply. The most he heard was that any late unpleasantness regarding rebels or apostasy was done and dealt with and that the road was clear from ‘glen to ‘marsh.

  With no leads to pursue and with Calaf still dreading another long trip between stations, Calaf resolved to visit the local cathedral before retiring for one last night.

  Calaf arrived at the cathedral as the bi-weekly evening mass was starting. The sun was beginning to dip below the sea, and the slow, winding beacon from the old lighthouse was beginning its nightly circuits. The Squire shivered, remembering that house of horrors.

  Mass had already begun, with the kindly interim Pryor Deacon beginning the reciting of the Olde Heroes’ Liturgy. Rather than try and squeeze into the back of the sermon, Calaf made for the reliquary vault and the statuary hall. The spot where one ranked up was of personal significance after all. In this, he was rebuked, as two high-level knightly guards stood watch, the gate shut closed.

  “None may pass,” said the rightmost knight in a whisper.

  “Why not?” Calaf asked.

  Quiet was necessary, so as not to disturb the mass.

  “There’s a breach. Four disappearances in the past fortnight. See the deacon if you wish to know more,” said the leftmost knight.

  Calaf took a seat and attended the same sermons he’d been listening to since birth back in Riverglen. By the time he sat down, communion was already underway.

  "Together, these great heroes did push back the forces of devilry and heretical doubters both. We are blessed with their Holy Interface forever more." Pryor Deacon held his hands out in a wide embrace. "Now, my flock, do open your Menus and move over to communion."

  The faithful, which were relatively sparse for this mass, opened their Menus in a flurry of bluish Interfaces hovering over the pews. They selected their Inventories, then Food, and then selected or filtered for ‘Official Communion Wafers (x1)’. Via their Menus, they selected ‘Eat.’ Such was how the faithful interacted with the world.

  As a late arrival, Calaf had not been traded any communion wafers. Instead, he merely repeated the liturgies under his breath.

  “As the Besainted Priestess and Martyred Paladin decreed, eat this in remembrance of humanity’s great victory over the Demon King,” orated Deacon. “So that none may forget how the Ancient Heroes of Yore rescued us all. To quote our Holy Cleric, oh Priestess: ‘When every man and woman is kept in their place, fettered by these shackles of gold, only then shall all be right with the world…”

  This sermon. It would’ve been the one Pryor Yordan was repeating that fateful day — the day of the murder.

  Calaf’s attention waned. The ceremony went on without him. Chivalry dictated that he cease the hunt for Jelena after she saved his life the first time. By the second, he was actively in her debt. But the church’s definition of chivalry felt increasingly weighted towards entrenching its own power and smiting heretics these days. Surely the church arbiters would not accept such an excuse. Deep down, Calaf wondered if it was all post-hoc justification. Church chivalry merely set up a code of honor that benefited people like Perarde, who already reigned at the top. Meanwhile, Calaf’s personal sense of honor was also a selfish mask that benefited primarily him. He simply didn’t want to fight Jelena and certainly didn’t want to bring her to justice. What he wanted…

  For the first time, Calaf’s thoughts gave a proper definition to his angst. Was he no longer pursuing Pryor Yordan’s murderer because of honorable payback-in-kind for their numerous lifesaving good deeds…

  Up at the front of the cathedral, Deacon raised his hands to the stained glass. “Hallowed Be the Menu. Amen!”

  … or was it because Calaf desired the murderer, slayer of his foster father, carnally?

  “Amen,” he echoed, harboring even more doubts than when the sermon had started.

  After it was finished, Calaf approached the godly pryor in the cathedral’s wings.

  “Hello once again, brave sir knight,” said Pryor Deacon. “I trust the sermon was to your liking?”

  Deacon was a fair enough orator, but the lessons within rung hollow in the young Squire’s soul, now.

  “I suppose, Father Deacon,” Calaf managed.

  “Please, please, just Deacon if it pleases you. We were traveling companions, and therefore comrades of equal status,” Deacon said. “If I understand correctly, you were among those who answered the crusader’s call…”

  Silent, Calaf gave the faintest of nods.

  “How fared the campaign? Is the sanctity of the church safe from those who would usurp its rule?”

  Calaf looked upon the Deacon with a guarded gaze. While pryors and deacons held important confessionary roles, the spiritual rot that troubled Calaf was not something he ought to bring up to even a kind and friendly soul such as Deacon.

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  “Hmm. What’s this? I see you’ve gained a certain reputational status.” Pryor Deacon’s eyes narrowed. “Kissing unprompted, are we, brave knight?”

  Calaf lost his breath. Figured this would come up eventually. Still, he counted to three, refocused, and responded:

  “If you must know my betrothed took the initiative,” Calaf said all matter of factly.

  “Ah, the kindly Deaconess from the Riverlands? Well, that’s quite unlike a ranking woman of the church. But given the mortal peril you involved yourself in, a bit of closeness outside of the Menu’s bounds is perfectly understandable… within reason, of course.”

  Calaf nodded. “And I merely paid back a kiss in kind.”

  Blending two separate truths was not quite a lie. If it was, Deacon did not pry further.

  “Come, give testament to your adventure on the crusader’s call,” Deacon implored him. “The scribes will need recollections for the church’s official records…”

  Deacon brought Calaf aside to provide firsthand testimony of the events at the Battletower, and those much later at Fort Duran.

  “Hmmm. Entire dungeons cleared out and used as a stronghold of apostasy…” Deacon rubbed his chin. “Yes, these are strange times indeed.”

  There was little Calaf could do in the retellings to exonerate Paladin Joan and her longtime love, the ex-Bishop Cayo. Instead, he cast all possible scorn onto Honest John, a humble merchant and aspiring cult leader who’d caused such trouble and used untrained and na?ve pilgrims as fodder. Better to castigate someone still, presumably, alive. Someone Calaf legitimately despised. Mayhaps church scholars some years from now, in more reasonable times, could relitigate Joan and Cayo’s cause based on what information Calaf provided here. But it was not going to happen now. The doomed reformists were not going to be declared victorious here during this mere testament in the Port Town cathedral.

  “Hmmm. Yes, these battles were… pitched,” Deacon said. “Are you okay, brave knight? I know many crusaders who return home, shall we say, changed. Even the most noble of causes is no balm from night terrors. Why, some even have adverse reactions being in the proximity of certain spells being cast.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The pair was quiet for some time. Until the church doors were pushed open in a huff. Some foreign-accented shouting was heard, and cathedral guards moved in to quell the din.

  Deacon excused himself.

  “Now, now. Let him in. He has as much a right to redress as the others.”

  A sailor barged in, two Branded children of no more than five years of age at his feet and another, near-newborn, in his arms. All were named ‘Dirk, Yol, and Mel, son/daughter of Mal’ in the Interface.

  “Will no one come and help me search for my wife?” said the sailor.

  The sailor was unbranded, so there was no direct way of noticing his name or status at a glance. He introduced himself as Mal, a sailor on extended shore leave, leave that was about to end in two days.

  “Someone needs to do something,” said the sailor. “My wife is missing. Went looking for her coworker, who also went missing ‘bout a week back. And more than a few of my crew and the crew of some of the other boats have up and vanished too.”

  Deacon frowned but did not respond.

  “We all hear the screams at night. Something’s out in the streets, now!” yelled Mal. “I’m shipping out in two days. I’d like to leave my young’uns with my wife before I head out. I’ll have no choice but to take ‘em with otherwise, but the youngest is hardly seaworthy.”

  “Our cathedral has orphanages, as do all along the path and even in missions abroad. Your children would be safe here,” Deacon said.

  “Deacon, what’s the matter?” Calaf asked.

  “Oh? You haven’t heard? There’s been a rash of missing persons cases of late. At least one – a friend of this poor sailor’s wife - went missing right in this very cathedral. As if they were spirited away.”

  “It’s happening in the street now,” said the sailor, combative. “Something’s happening. Me and some of the boys are forming a posse to find out what.”

  “… did any of these missing people happen to stop by the lighthouse?” Calaf asked, to piercing glares from Deacon.

  Deacon took Calaf aside again.

  All the while, that sailor paced around near the cathedral entrance with his children. The youngest seemed to sense the father’s apprehension and began to stir and whine.

  “What do you know of the lighthouse?” Deacon raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  Calaf exhaled. “There… was a church arbiter there. The first time I was in town. Baldr. He roped me into finding some thieves guild hideouts. Only, his methods of interrogation killed without any consideration for commending his targets to the crypts or otherwise disposing of them safely. When I returned last time I was here, there was… something new in there.”

  “Hmmm. Yes. The guild of thieves,” Deacon said slowly. “I’d heard tell it was deeply embedded in this city – but disposed of root and branch before I assumed my role.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, as some echoing sound of falling stones into deep water came from back in the reliquary hall. Deacon leaned in closer.

  “We’ve sent ranking church personnel to investigate, but none have returned,” he whispered to Calaf. “Some guards in the reliquary hall went missing three nights back. I dare not put anyone below level sixty guarding the gate now.”

  “Do you know what that… thing in the lighthouse was?” Calaf asked.

  Deacon shook his head. “I fear not. Only that it wasn’t alone. I do not know what lurks in the cisterns and aqueducts of Port Town. Only that it’s in no way contained there.”

  “We’re sure it’s the cisterns?”

  “Residents have been complaining about foul taste to the water for weeks.”

  In the steamy off-season, the cisterns should be low on water. Lots of nooks and crannies to hide in. The whole network of drainage, storage, and water transport would be exposed.

  “Okay.” Calaf walked to the sailor. “You said you were forming a posse to go looking for your wife?”

  “Aye.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “Thereabouts three days. Went looking for her coworker, who has been missing for longer.”

  Calaf bowed his head. “Okay. I’m sorry. If you don’t think your kids will last locked in your apartment or house for the night, the Pryor should have resources for them. But… if you want a place to look, there’s an old thieves' guild hidden hideout built into a cistern a bit north of here. Perhaps you should search there. Take a Branded with you if you can, especially one who has access to flame spells.”

  Whether the sailor took this advice to heart, Calaf had no idea. Mal took his children back home at least.

  “You said there were disappearances in the reliquary hall?” Calaf asked Deacon.

  By the interim pryor’s command, the high-level guards stood aside and let both Deacon and Calaf pass.

  “A member of the flock in excellent standing went here to pray some days ago,” Deacon explained. “She disappeared without ever leaving the grounds of the reliquary hall. She was waiting for the longest time for a recently converted lover but neither ever left this cathedral. By the time I noticed it was past midnight. Nevertheless, we searched the grounds and found…”

  A foul air wafted from behind the statue of the Holy Cleric. Reddish vines grew out from a fissure in the cathedral’s mighty stone walls, wrapping over everything like fell crimson kudzu but notably avoiding the statue’s base.

  “It’s been growing worse. Something… took a guard from out of here in the bright light of day. Had to cancel the previous sermon because of it. Only the bravest visit the cathedral for my ceremonies now.”

  Calaf stepped on the thickest red vine. It bristled, tensing up like a tripwire, coiling its way into the fissure and through the town cistern network. All the other vines retracted slightly, forming a tighter net such that there was nowhere to step that would not disturb the growth further.

  Something knew he was waiting.

  Something was now watching them in turn.

  “I called for arbiters to investigate,” Deacon added. “But with the late unpleasantness, they’re all a bit booked. We’ve sent guards into the cisterns at various points, but it’s been days…”

  “How many guards?”

  “Four parties, all at various points in the aqueduct network. Anymore and we wouldn’t have anyone manning the walls. Nightly street patrols are already lax, and now the disappearances are happening out on the street.” Deacon’s head dropped. “The guard captain personally led the last expedition through this very tunnel. Recruited some adventurers for hire and even unbranded looking for a chance at redemption to boost their numbers. That was last week.”

  Based on the standard party size and accounting for the additional reinforcements at least two dozen church guards were missing somewhere in the reservoirs and aqueducts of Port Town. That didn’t count the missing persons they’d been sent to rescue. That’s potentially forty or more bodies, all fused and repurposed like that entity under the lighthouse.

  “These unbranded…” Calaf paused to gather his thoughts. “Was there a woman with shaved-short red hair among them? Maybe came from the north?”

  Deacon nodded. “I believe there was. She had the airs of a shell-shocked crusade veteran about her. Poor dear denied my counsel and volunteered straight away. We were about to send another group for search and rescue. A larger group may have better odds…”

  “I’ll go,” Calaf declared. “Alone.”

  Better not to risk anyone else’s life.

  He alone had the slightest clue of what he could be up against in there. He alone had a rough knowledge of the cistern layouts thanks to his dealings with the thieves' guild.

  Anything to get his mind off his troubles. Anything to try and find some clue as to Karol’s whereabouts.

  “Allow me to apply some blessings,” Deacon said.

  He clasped his hands in prayer and threw up defensive buffs, a one-time use barrier shield, a slight holy damage enhancement of his spear, and a silencing spell that hushed Calaf’s boots as they splashed through the cistern water.

  “Thank you, Pryor.” Calaf followed up with a spell of his own:

  With his spear ablaze serving as a makeshift torch, Calaf took the first quiet step into the cistern. The vines reacted less to each movement, perhaps lulled by Deacon’s stealth spell.

  “Oh, by the way,” Deacon’s echoed whisper came from his back. “Not sure if this information helps, but of those who have gone missing in the streets at night, they’re almost all unbranded…”

  Calaf’s shield was large enough to barely fit through the cistern’s narrow passageways. It would be invaluable should he be attacked from the front, but cause problems should anything come at him from behind.

  Cautiously, Calaf took another step forward into darkness…

  Calaf officially acknowledges that he's motivated by his desire for relic thieffussy.