Quoted By:
<span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-r">Ally's Perception 31 vs. DC 25</span></span>
You eye the double doors leading into the ruins with suspicion. The timber and iron look too fresh for the crumbling, burnt-out masonry of the once-hallowed structure. Black tar and ground cinnabar paint a crude depiction of the Black Primrose upon the simple wooden face, almost inviting the faithful to smash it down. Your nose can pick up the faintest whiff of brimstone, of magic tinged with flame and ash.
Gut instinct warns against smashing straight through, not without knowing what lay on the other side. It could be just as easily be a trap of explosive runes as it could be the flickering light of an everflame dancing in a golden dish. When dealing with heretics, one cannot be too cautious.
You nee a greater divination than your own, if you wish to see what lay on the other side.
Raising your hand, your men fall still and quiet. The only noise that fills the air are the soft incantations of your casters, and the cracks of thunder as their spells seek out goblins that have taken flight. All the orcs lie dead from spell or spear, and thus far no reinforcements have joined them.
"Damien, what heresies can you conjure that might show us what lay within the chapel?" You whisper above the silence, keeping your voice low. When he does not respond, you turn your head to where he ought to be. "If you cannot perform, then-"
Your words fall short when you see no robed knight among your formation.
"Boric," you turn to your second with narrowed eyes. "Where is Damien?"
"He never joined the formation, Dame Louise," Boric informs you. He cannot see it beneath your helm - and perhaps that is for the best - but your face contorts into a rather unflattering expression at his words. Your silence speaks with all the volume that he needs to hear your frustration with him. "I thought you knew when you called the advance, madame."
A reminder that he is not beholden to your command, let alone that of a humble man-at-arms such as Boric, hangs unspoken in the air. You want to hiss in frustration, but you keep it back to just a quiet sigh.
"I saw Sir Damien slip into the fog," whispers one of your men-at-arms. You recognize her as Annette, a woman's woman stout and hearty, and but two inches shorter than Boric. Most importantly, one of the few women's women who <span class="mu-i">accepts</span> your preferences for what they are. When you look in her direction, she continues with, "It was right as the horn sounded. He was whispering something about finding some toys to play with."
Boric snaps to her. He does not sound mad, simply disappointed, when he asks, "Why did you say nothing of this?"
Annette throws a hand up in surrender to her superior officer, "I'm sorry! I was afraid the heretic would turn me into a newt!"
"A sanctioned sorcerer would do no such thing," You assure her with a gentle voice, implicitly forgiving her slipup. "That spell is heretical. Wait, <span class="mu-i">Oh...</span>"
