Tortoise Therapy
7 extra chapters in P@treon.
***
His black fur cloak, carefully crafted and stitched by Gromm using the remains of a Lesser Runebear, fluttered in the wind as he urged Elrus forward. They rode past jagged protrusions of rock and stone that rose among the lush green grass, following the long path to the building peeking out on the horizon.
"Death... smell death," Grimm, the other self-named Demi-Human Chief, growled as he ran alongside Elrus.
"Grimm is right; the smell of death is growing ever closer," Gilika muttered as she kept pace, leaving Earnan and Gromm to take care of the chunk of Demi-Humans and soldiers who had fallen behind.
Sure enough, a few hours later, as they scaled the steep slopes of the landmass, occasional clumps of gravestones began to crop up before a broken and cracked stake of Marika. The soil before it rumbled and twisted, skeletal hands bursting out of it akin to the opening of a zombie movie.
Godrick sighed. Not only were they annoying, but they also wouldn't give him any meaningful EXP.
[Order's Blade]
[Order's Blade]
Two flashes of gold covered Gromm's and Gilika's daggers and greatsword, enabling them to banish 'Those Who Live In Death' once and for all.
"Deal with them," was the last thing they heard before Godrick sped off into the distance.
***
Within the hour, Godrick managed to reach his destination, a large building whose glory days were long past.
The Church of Vows stood solemnly amid a breeding ground of death, its ancient stone walls and ivy-clad exterior surrounded by weathered gravestones. These tombstones, scattered around the church, marked the resting places of those who refused to rest.
With creaking, jerky movements, tens of skeletal soldiers wearing tattered garments and wielding worn but deadly weapons ranging from scythes to swords rose from the gravestones, all fixing their hollow sockets on him.
[Observe]
(Character Sheet:
Skeletal Militiaman
Age: Five years and five months
HP: 70
FP: ---
Strength: 14
Dexterity: 12
Endurance: 8
Vigor: 7
Mind: ---
Intelligence: ---
Faith: ---
Skills:
[Those Who Live In Death (Passive): What is dead may never die, but rises again, stronger and harder. Burn your bones in Ghostflame, gaining 0.5 in all stats in every resurrection. Stat gain ceases once all stats have reached 20.]
[Sticks And Stones May Break My Bones (Passive): All damage to your bones regenerates once burned in Ghostflame.]
[Spear Mastery (Passive) Level 3: Mildly proficient in wielding the spear.])
"Unfortunate," he mumbled to himself as his Greatspear flashed into his hand and [Order's Blade] gilded its form. But just as he was about to wipe out the 'Those Who Live In Death' infestation, a wizened old voice sounded from the broken building.
"Ah, gentle traveller, should you enter the Church of Vows, those who dwell in death shall cease their restless hunt. The sacred grounds offer solace, even to the cursed."
He listened to the voice, ignoring the advancing Skeletal Militiamen, and entered the building, only to be greeted by a sight that warmed even his empty heart.
Within the walls of the Church of Vows, time itself seemed to stand still. The interior was bathed in light filtered through large stained glass windows, casting delicate patterns of gold and green across the worn stone floor and the small hooded statue standing amid a shallow pond.
"Oh my, what a grand sight you are," the gentle, aged voice spoke again, its owner a massive tortoise with skin as grey as ancient stone and a shell to match.
Adorned with a large, somewhat whimsical Pope hat, the venerable creature rested among the grass and yellow flowers. "A Demigod, no less. It has been quite some time since I've laid eyes upon your ilk."
[Observe]
(Character Sheet:
Ancient Tortoise Miriel, Pastor Of Vows
Age: Twenty-thousand-five hundred and thirty-three years, three months old
HP: ???
FP: ???
Strength: ??
Dexterity: 5 (Debuff)
Endurance: ??
Vigor: ??
Mind: ??
Intelligence: ??
Faith: 47
Skills:
[Pastor of Vows (Passive): Your Fate is yours alone, and none can push, pull, or manipulate it. Grants the ability to oversee the ritual of Absolution and to read the heavens, deducing the Fate of others.]
[Old is Gold, Old is Wisdom (Passive): Generate a passive calming aura around you, reducing aggression and hostility from would-be foes]
Debuffs:
[Crippling Arthritis: -90% of Dexterity])
"Greetings, Miriel. Thou art a balm to these weary eyes", Godrick gave the Tortoise Pope a small bow before walking up to him and sitting his large body on the ground, the Runebear cloak greatly contrasting with his golden eyes and locks.
His actions seemed to surprise the aged Tortoise, Miriel's eyes widening.
"You're a Demigod, aren't you? You do not act like one; well, the Shattering caused us—all of us—to lose sight of something very dear, which is most true for Demigods, maddened by the taint of their newfound power," he mused as Godrick plucked a yellow flower. "No longer do they act like the men and women they once were."
"Helps that I've always been a bit mad," Godrick gave Miriel a small smile, which the Tortoise happily returned.
"Yet, I do not know of you. No deeds, feats, or legends," Miriel looked into Godrick's aurous eyes with curiosity, his brown pupils briefly glowing bright blue. "Why... I sense that you are one devoid of Fate as well. Who are you?"
"A man seeking respite from the shackles of boredom."
"And how exactly do you do that?"
"By risking my life in battle, dancing at the edge of death such that I feel something again."
"Sounds morbid, even if true death eludes all of us," the Pope said with some pity, to which Godrick shrugged.
"It is, but I worry that as I grow stronger, worthy opponents shall dwindle," he leaned forward, trying to be as frank as he could. "If battle is all that stirs my soul, then let it be so. Yet, I dread that it mirrors an unquenchable thirst that I shall never be able to sate. I do not wish to roam the Lands-Between as a husk of a man."
"You..." Miriel looked at him with sad eyes. "You are a very sad man."
Godrick's hands tightened around the spear, uncomfortable memories of his past life rising up in his head.
"I have heard that more times than I wish to recall."
"My apologies then, Demigod," Miriel lightly bowed his head. "Worry not, despite your perceived flaws, every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance. You are no different, just more attuned to the truth."
"That does not sound like what a Pope would say."
"No, it is what Miriel would."
"Then what if I do not wish to know the truth? If ignorance brings me solace, why should I not embrace it?"
"Wishing for ignorance is not wrong on your part," Miriel gave him a comforting look, the Pope hat on his head making him look all the more amicable. "Yet, if the path you seek is one where comfort lies in not knowing, then that too is a choice. But know this, Demigod—peace lies not in denying the truth, but in finding the will to live alongside it."
Godrick sat in comfortable silence with the Pope for a few minutes, contemplating Miriel's words. It was not something he hadn't heard before, but it never had the impact that it had on him right now. Perhaps he required a giant amicable tortoise for him to listen.
It was nice, in an odd sort of way. After decades of appointments and being told that he was an anomaly, a freak, and a psychopath, it was nice to hear someone say that he was not a blot to wipe away or be fixed.
Sure, he would still be within that grey emptiness, but perhaps he would have to learn to live with it.
"I know not of a permanent solution, not yet, but it's best you begin to help yourself," the Pope broke the silence. "Your soul is in your hands alone. Still, I can help with easing your worry."
"Can thee?" Godrick looked at him in mild surprise. He had not expected an answer, just another person he could share his problems with—perhaps the only one in this world.
"Yes, I always can," Miriel nodded, the hat wiggling slightly. "But be warned, I tell you this since you do not seem like a cruel man—this must not reach anyone else's ears."
"I am aware that many might beg to differ."
"I don't. Disagree, that is. That is more than enough," Miriel rebutted before his deep, chocolaty brown eyes turned serious. "Seek out the home of the Living Jars, and you may find a temporary answer."
Godrick frowned. "The Living Jars? What can they do to help?"
"Find out for yourself, that is, if you find the place," Miriel shook his head, refusing to elaborate.
"Thou must needs play the part of the mysterious, must thou not?" Godrick chuckled.
"An old tortoise has to hold on to something, after all," Miriel chortled before watching Godrick get to his feet. "You are free to show yourself around. I would serve as your guide, only my legs aren't what they used to be..."
"No, 'tis fine. Don't bother," Godrick stopped Miriel the instant he attempted to stand up. "I have gained more than I ever hoped. Pray, is there aught I might do to help?"
"I don't desire much, Demigod. Just drop by when you can. I enjoyed your company," Miriel twinkled. "Write to me too. Just give it to any tortoise you find—it shall find its way to me eventually."
Godrick raised a brow. "Sure, that I can do."
"If you find anything of use, you are free to take it with you. I don't need much these days."
"Even that?" He pointed at the chest next to Miriel, which he knew contained the Golden Tailoring Tools that he knew someone would like. With a nod from Miriel, he happily tucked them into his cloak.
"Ah, one last thing," Miriel stopped him as he was about to exit the church. "I never got your name."
"Godrick," he said. "Just Godrick."
***
POWERSTONES! Else plastic straws may magically find their way to Miriel.
P.S: Volume II (Weight of Gold) has ended in P@treon.