>>5572139>>5572144>>5572148>>5572195>>5572202>>5572203>>5572621>>5572629>Pass through the gash to the quiet churchyard.You remain thoughtful of your disciples’ physical limitations (as well as your own constitutional constraints) and stick to the ground. You first manage the invalid with little difficulty (so thin his chest measures near the breadth of his crutch), then shove in the hag with lots of fits and moans and owl pecks, and finally yourself, a long, embarrassing show of squeezing your gut and holding your breath.
The church yard is a small, dim hillock lined with crosses and crowned with a church, the patches of grass and snow beneath you hard and cold. The wrought iron fence around the diameter of the yard scrapes the night sky. The vast, gothic-peasant architecture of the village stretches out into the night behind those bars, lit only by the pale glow of the moon.
SEINS-DE-SAINT-ANNE is almost dream-like. The eclectic mix of pig iron and rotten wood built into grand cathedrals and spires like a poor man’s take on the capitol, the lanterns and wires that run electric through the sky like spider’s webs, the bullhorns on window fixtures that echo dogmatic propaganda. The village is built uphill northward and seems to climb like a wave, a sea of buildings to crash on top of you..
You’re rent from the wondrous sight of the village with a sudden grunt. You cast your gaze downward to see a small, hunch-backed man, stooped low by the weight of a broad shovel. A gravedigger for the church, his hands are dirtied and nose scrunched.
“You lot! What are you doing here?” He barks, his mouth running short of a few teeth. “The invalid and the fool oracle.. you weren’t accepted by HIS HOLINESS. Get back outside, now.”
>Pretend you belong. It’s worked for you your entire life.>Invalid, run him through with your pitchfork.>Have the hag do haggy things to him.>Flee! You won’t deal with this now.>Introduce yourself as the ORDER OF OCULI LIBIDINIS. This village will be yours.>Write-In. 