Good Monk, Bad Monk (Arnholt and Matthew sidethread)

[Arnholt]

The butt of Arnholt's staff tapped the ground in an even rhythm as he accompanied Matthew through the busy streets of Roque, presumably on route to the latter's choice of dining place. Their meeting again so soon had been a little bit of a surprise. Arnholt had figured on seeing the soft-spoken monk again, sure, but he had expected that it would be once they had both taken their places at the Abbey.

Another chance encounter, then, or the will of the gods?

No matter really. Either way, this meeting could be turned to serve Righteous' purposes. The fledgling cultist was possessed (as it were) with an understandable desire to establish friendships within the church, the better to pose as an honest clergyman and to divert suspicion later on down the line. So why not make an early start of it?

And anyway, he had found Matthew to be pleasant enough company so far.

"Not to insist on a topic of undue solemnity," Arnholt said, "but as a prospective monk, I been wondering. What lead you to join your order? If you don't mind my asking, that is."

[Matthew]

"Starvation," replied Matthew immediately. The fact that it was entirely true made little difference in the grand scheme of things, but it did occur to the young not-quite-a-monk that his companion might expect more. "Oh, dear, I know you will expect more of me. You perhaps expect me to offer you some sense of...solemnity to my cause. But the truth is this. As a boy, I was orphaned suddenly...and just before I starved to death, I was rescued and sent to a monastery. Conveniently, the monastery...Knottingshall, near the Bois Noir...specializes in the pious and humble industry of fruit preservation. Indeed, starvation brought me to the monastery...but the promise of sweet strawberry preserves over toast in the morningtide kept me there."

They were slowing and falling away from the parade, and Matthew cast his eyes around looking for an appropriate eatery to take his guest. Roast chicken and carrots could most likely be found virtually anywhere food might be served, at least this time of the yahren...but the young man wasn't entirely familiar with the place.

"I know what you will think. You will consider me perhaps the least devoted of his followers, at least overtly...and perhaps you're right? For example, I find your talk of the true beauty of the One God to be as unfamiliar to me as the blue, avian effigy that means more to these people than any One God," Matthew dismissed the pagan symbol with a backward wave. "I wouldn't hesitate to argue that this parrot might have brought them far more fortune than the Church has in the last few yahren anyway, so how can we be surprised?"

[Arnholt]

Arnholt threw back his head with a sharp bark of laughter. "Starvation!" he roared. "You're an honest man. I admire that, brother."

An honest man raised in a fine tradition of fruit preservation. The fledgling cultist smiled under the hood, approving of the thought of monks more or less entirely devoted to making preserves. He approved of Oneists priests doing pretty much anything that wasted large amounts of time... time which, in all likelihood, they would otherwise just spend being assholes.

"But now I'm afraid you see me as an impractical dreamer," Arnholt went on dryly. "Still, I wouldn't go dismissing the faith of the people of Roque out of hand. As I understand it, the parrot thing is just for one day. Surely their belief in the One God is perennial." A more ardent (and more genuine) sort of feeling crept into his voice as he continued. "As I see it, brother Matthew, everyone needs something to believe in. We know it in our heart of hearts, however some folks might scoff at the idea. Thing is, though, there's a lot of people who choose to believe in wealth. Or power. Or survival. People who don't look past their next meal and conquest and don't give a cra-- beg pardon-- don't care a whit for anyone other than their own fuck-- again, your pardon sir-- other than themselves."

Arnholt gave his head a short, emphatic shake. "I been there. That life is an empty one, brother. A path that leads to nowhere. Ain't none of us are immortal, you know. Seems to me we'd maybe better got to consider the next world along with this one, and to me, that means doin' my bit to make the world a better place. I pray the One God will forgive me for the arrogance I show by my ambition, but I want to help show this city's lost souls that there's a better way and a brighter future. If I can convince even a handful 'em to stop pissing their lives away I'll consider my own life well spent."

Fiery idealism aside, the fledgling cultist's eyes were filled with a very worldly sort of humor when they turned to Matthew again. "Course, all that's a lot easier to consider when you know when you know where you're next meal's comin' from. Lucky for me, I do. You did say you were buying, right?" And he indulged in another hearty laugh over his own minor witticism.

[Matthew]

"Ha! Impractical dreamer indeed," smiled Matthew...and indeed, he did come to that very conclusion. Brother Beacon seemed entirely too devoted to his ideals...which may or may not have something to do with service to the Church, service to the One, or perhaps simply service to something. As he spoke...talk of motivations, ambitions, and spiritual guidance...it occurred to Matt that what Beacon really needed was a hobby. Or perhaps a girl. Or perhaps both...such as a girl hobby. Still, it wouldn't do for Matthew to question Bram's particular calling, so he didn't. Once again, that would be rude...and since Matthew found himself rather partial to Bram Beacon, he wouldn't dream of such impertinence. Not this early in their association, anyway.

It also occurred to Matthew that something about Bram Beacon spoke of tyranny. Oh, wealth, power, survival...indeed, such motivations often lead to self-service, self-indulgence, and self-gratification with little regard for the good of the people...Matthew nodded in agreement at this. But then, the War of the One wasn't about wealth, power, or survival. It was about showing the lost souls that there's a better way and a brighter future. While Master Beacon was no Bathasar I, it was worth remembering...especially if Matthew's belief that this Festival of the Parrot was indeed a pagan ritual...and paganism was no longer illegal now that the King was gone. With this in mind, Matthew continued...but his casual, cheerful demeanor was more fabricated as he veiled his caution very, very carefully.

"Still, you have the right of it...I don't mean to dismiss their faith out-right. Still, it isn't too complicated," continued Matthew, glancing among the festival vendors for someone serving roasted chicken. "Of course it's a pagan observation, perhaps Motherist, perhaps something all together simpler and cruder, such as some demon or spirit. After all, most of the people I've seen here in the city are adhiel...and their roots lie much deeper than the One faith. In fact, I suspect that very little was done here to enforce the King's ban on pagan practices even while His Majesty lived...a story quite common throughout the Kingdoms. Now that he is deceased, there remains no law precluding such worship...so you may find these lost souls returning to the Mother rather quickly...for they never truly left it in the first place. Why, I find it surprising that a new temple to the Mother wasn't erected here before Balthasar's body was entombed. You may expect it in the next season at the latest, I'm sure."

Having said that, it seemed an apt time to change the subject. "Here...let us slip away down this street where we will find the Dog's Home Inn. I'm sure we might scare up a chicken or two at the place. It should be rather quiet what with the Festival, I should think..."

[Arnholt]

"Surely not?" Arnholt sketched the sign of Dominicus in the air, as if to ward away the suggestion that the parrot might represent some demon or pagan spirit. Well, it was a possibility he supposed. But it was also somewhat of a perilous leap of logic without knowing just how old the festival was. "Still, I must admit I don't buy that stuff about the parrot being an avatar of the One. Be interested to know the whole story behind the thing."

Soon enough it was Arnholt looking askance at Matthew, wondering exactly what it was he was driving at. The man seemed far from a fanatic. At the very least, he was utterly without religious pretensions. At most he was a self-admitted unbeliever in monk's robes. So what was this concern about a possible rise of paganism in the city? It didn't seem like something that a jam-producing monk-by-circumstance would care very much about. Yet there seemed to be some real concern underlying Matthew's words.

Righteous. Am I being tested already?

"Laws, brother?" he answered at last. "You can't change a man's heart by passing a law. You can't make him accept Truth by aiming a sword at his throat. Pardon me if I offend you, but I hold to the tenets of The Heart. The best way... pehaps the only way... to redeem lost souls is through gentle but sincere persuasion." Arnholt's shoulders rose and fell in a heavy shrug. "Whether the adhiel raise a temple to their pagan goddess or they don't, we will not win back their faith in the One God by raising a fist to them. In the free marketplace of ideas, Truth will win out in the end. I believe that any determined seeker-after of righteousness will find a place in His light eventually. Isn't that so?"

Embracing The Heart in his false persona was a calculated risk for Arnholt. He was taking the chance that his avowed acceptance of that "liberal" religious movement would alienate hard-liners in the Church and make his work more difficult. At the same time, it would be an easier charade to maintain than would pretending to be a sympathizer of the Purificatio, because the teachings of The Heart were far more in tune with what his own religious predilections would be... if he really were a Oneist anymore. Nor he could he afford to make an enemy of the city's vast adhiel population by pretending to be one of those blood-spitting, pagan-hating priests who were, in any case, far more common in World's Mouth than here.

"But forgive me for droning on. Someone told me not so long ago I ought to remember there's more to life than my mission." Arnholt's eyes were momentarily sad as he thought of Aylmari. "Hum. Dog's Home Inn, huh? Sure, why the hell-- pardon, why not. After you, Brother Matthew."

[Matthew]

"Ah, yes, but that is precisely the point," nodded Matthew immediately, and with some relief. "The Church cannot, and has never, held the power to pass or enforce the laws of the land...and yet, it has fallen upon us...me, my Order, the local Monastery, the Prodesse Dominicus, the Archbishop, the Cardinal Regent...all within the One Faith, which will soon include you...to undo the damage caused by the tyrannical will of just one man. Whether he fashioned himself an Avatar of the One or not seems to matter very little in the eyes of the people, be they pagan, Oneist, or otherwise. We are responsible because they have made us so. Frankly, I should be much happier if they believed that silly parrot to be the Avatar of the One. A parrot would not have held a blade to their throats and demanded their hearts to change, or shipped so many of them off to some horrible internment camp in the mountains...this Pax Balthasar, whatever they have named it."

"I found myself somewhat hesitant to speak of this as I didn't want to dissuade you from your calling," admitted Matthew. "Certainly, if this is your wish, you must pursue it...but you will find that upon taking your vows, you will indeed be responsible for all the ills facing the Western Kingdoms. You will be hated by those who believe they should hate you because you share the same faith as the late King. And you will be held to account for wrongs done by those who committed them not for power, wealth, or survival, but for nothing more than their warped sense of Dominicus. We are a very sad bunch, Master Beacon...caught between the raving lunacy of a mad King and the bitter resentment of his people. I admire your willingness to step within that maelstrom, and I am confident you will find your way. I only hope your vows do not damage your chances to accomplish your goals. I dare say this very habit I wear not only labels me a Horrible Oneist who Hates Fun, but insures that no one will trust me or confide in me as they might have just two yahren ago. Of course...that rather pleases me, to be fair. I've never been one for...what did you call it?...solemnity," laughed Matthew.

Kicking upon the door to the Dog's Home (the place Matthew had stored Steve the Mule only a few marks ago), the monk scanned the interior for a free table...no doubt readily available due to the festival out in the streets. Dog's Home Inn is a clean and quaint tavern that is nearly twin to the Goose and Gander, which sits on the north side of town (the place Matthew currently took his mail). The two Inns were started by brothers and originally had the exact same décor and set up. Later on the brothers had a falling out and the Goose and Gander changed its look, but the layout remains the same. While both inns share similar pricing and attractions, the Dog's Home seems to attract more common guests. Visiting traders, mercenaries, and other legitimate but modest businessmen take their lodgings here. It is a peaceful place, well patrolled by guards. The rooms each contain a lockable chest, a table and two chairs, a comfortable bed, and a solid, locking door.

After the Red Storm swept through Roque, many buildings were devastated. Not so the Dog's Home. The only thing that changed here is the owner. Nowadays a darkhaired woman named Haifra orders the personnel around. The Inn's large common room is cheerful, though decorated in dark shades of wood and earth tones, and usually smells of food and lye soap. Servers thread there way past the solid, well made round tables and Haifra stands behind the long oak bar. To the back is a large bath area and steam room where travelers can wash and steam the dirt of the road from their tired bodies. A small stage is tucked into the corner for entertainers, the bar and its tender lie directly opposite the doorway. A staircase leading to the rooms upstairs sits next to the doorway, its mahogany banister covered in intricate carvings.

"Indeed, whoever told you this was indeed wise beyond their yahren: There is more to life than service and missions. Out of respect to this advise you were given, I think tonight you should drink as if it is your last day to do so. Curiously, it might just be that! I'm not familiar with the vows taken at the local Monastery, so you might wish to enjoy yourself fully before you resign yourself to a life of service, pulpit singing, and being a convenient target for curses, taunts, pagan hatred, rotten fruits and vegetables. Ah..." Matthew glanced around, taking in the current clientele. "Do not hesitate to leave me in a trice if you have other urges to address before you dawn your habit, brother. We are, after all, only human, even if so many expect so much more from each of us."

[Arnholt]

"I've never been one for...what did you call it?...solemnity," laughed Matthew.

"So I've noticed," Arnholt replied. And more soberly, "As for this maelstrom you speak of... the troubles ahead... I pray you are wrong, brother. But I fear you are right."

Actually, it was the other way around. The resentment of the people presented a tremendous opportunity for a man like Arnholt. And those people with a warped sense of Dominicus? A convenient target for their anger. And for the first time, Arnholt entertained the idea that Matthew himself might be a fair target for conversion to Righteous-worship. Of course it was far too soon in their acquaintanceship for him to consider that thought with any intent to act on it. Still... with but a small emotional distortion, just a faint skewing of the way he saw the world, perhaps Matthew might be ready to accept Arnholt's particular point of view. He already saw the harm that had been done in Dominicus' name. Only, in his naiveté, he placed the blame on the late king alone.

Balthasar, dear "brother," was not there in World's Mouth to oversee the razing of the Elf Quarter. He was not there to order the deaths of my erstwhile brothers and sisters... and Aylmari, who was an innocent in the whole affair.

And more to the point, Balthasar did not sew the seeds of hatred, discrimination, and fanaticism that had lead to the atrocities committed in the War of the One and thereafter. That fault lay with Dominicus himself. Ah, Brother Matthew. How strange that a man can see so clearly, and yet still be so blind. The Oneist Church had been building up to their latest campaign of wholesale murder since the penning of the Reformo ages ago. Regardless of whether or not Balthasar had been the One God's true avatar, Dominicus had had ample opportunities over the centuries to express his disapproval over the blood being shed in his name. And he had failed on each occasion. Instead, he had enshrined the persecution of unbelievers within his highest of holy laws.

"All things are deserving of the chance to exist, as long as they obey the ordainments of The One. However, should one fall from grace, their life is forfeit in His eyes." So long as they obey the ordainments of the One, indeed. Those who refused were marked for death in the words of Dominicus himself. What more license had Balthasar needed to do as he did in the One God's "holy" name?

Oh yes... if Matthew could be lead to see the entire truth, he might yet make a fine cultist. On the other hand, he could just as easily prove to be a very dangerous adversary. The man's frankness and professed tolerance made him an easy man to like. Easy to like... hard to hate. And therefore very difficult to destroy. If enough clerics came to adopt such views, they might very well be able to dampen that resentment Matthew himself warned of, and so whether the coming storm. And that wouldn't do at all. Too much blood had been shed for the Church to be forgiven so easily. Old wrongs had to be redressed. The balance had to be tilted in a direction much more preferable to the pagans, the adhiel, and the unbelievers of all stripes. After all, it hadn't just been the king whose madness had brought them where they were today: it was the madness of Dominicus himself. And so the One God could no longer be allowed to reign unchallenged in the Western Kingdom.

It is time, brother, for Righteous to speak and for Her voice to be heard. It is time... for Justice. Figuratively speaking. In the more immediate sense, it is time for a beer.

Out of respect to this advise you were given, I think tonight you should drink as if it is your last day to do so. Curiously, it might just be that!"

"Surely not!?" Arnholt hollered, blessing himself with the sign of Dominicus to ward the thought away just as he had when Matthew mentioned daemons. "Since the One God, in His wisdom, brought us the gift of good drink, surely He wouldn't deny it to us." At Matthew's latter suggestion he roared again with laughter, giving the other man a hearty slap on the back. "HA! You're a good man, my friend. And I damn well might take my leave of you for a while, if fortune smiles. For now, though, the day's still young. Let's see about that meal and those drinks, and forget about serious talk and troubles that make us sad. We'll see if we can single-handedly destroy the old saw about Oneists hating fun. Or at least put a big fucking dent in it!"

Flashing his merry grin, Arnholt surveyed the room much as Matthew had, before. On first glance he found the place rather to his liking. It was a little too bad that he had arrived here first as Bram Beacon, since it looked like this inn might also have been of interest to him in his Arnholt persona. But no matter. For now, damned if he wouldn't put Oneist thoughts and cultist plots aside. He strode toward the nearest convenient table, assuming Matthew would follow, already ready to order the promised meal and a drink besides. Not necessarily in that order.

[Syra]

In this case the usual cheery darkhaired woman was quite annoyed as she was probably one of the few people not able to go to the parade in case of unexpected customers...which was exactly what happened.

And from the looks of it it's good I wasn't away or closed shop as some did... Haifra thought to herself as she surveyed her guests. Religious types. Ugh. They could have stirred up a good mess if I had been closed. Whew.
She painted a smile on her face. "Happy Parrot Day, good sirs. What can I pour you?"

Inwardly she shrugged. These two were better than no customers at all and honestly, there was no one else who was daft enough to stay inside on Parrot day. As such the two gents had the entire room to themselves.

[Matthew]

"Well. I don't know if we will have chickens or not," murmured Matt on the way to one of many available tables. It could be that there was no one to cook them, though at this point the monk was hungry enough to accept anything. "Ah...I beg pardon, madam, but...if you've anything at all in the kitchen, could I trouble you for...a lot of it? I promised my friend chicken, though he may have to settle for whatever you have left. And perhaps beer. At least one for me..." Matthew indicated with a single finger, then slid a look towards Bram, slowly raising a second finger "...and perhaps another for my guest?"

It did occur to Matthew that the average monk took vows against many things...which frequently included alcohol (as well as many other things that might lead dangerously close to enjoyment). Thankfully, Matthew was not only less than an average monk, but he was also somewhat less inclined to consider vows to be as strict as all that. A healthy part of his perspective came from his unusual background: It took a seminary man to truly understand that, under all the scapular, habits, and vows, holy men weren't really much different than any other. In fact, Matthew had never met one that claimed to have pursued a calling before. He was genuinely curious about that one.

"So! I must hear it, Master Beacon. Tell me. How does one experience a...calling? More specifically, how did you receive your calling?" asked Matthew companionably once they were seated. The young man managed to keep all traces of skepticism out of his voice, but he couldn't deny that he was skeptical. After all, magic could accomplish many things that could be handily mistaken for divine visitation...and the rest could be explained away as rancid meat, spoiled cheese, or perhaps drinking warm beer in the morningtide. As a boy, Matthew had once elected to eat a rather pathetic-looking fish with no scales he had caught in the swamps of Le Bois Noir. As a result, he had seen old King Charlesmagne (who featured a very long beard entirely made of fire) spitting various berries and fruits out of his mouth such that they clung to nearby foliage, ready to be harvested.

[Arnholt]

"Looks like slim pickings all around," Arnholt grumbled back sotto voce. Getting laid his first night in Roque had never really been in his plans, but since Matthew had happened to put it in his mind, it was a bit of a shame to find no women here but the innkeeper herself. And if the parrot parade didn't drag her away from work, she damn well won't leave it for me. But, "I'm willing to be flexible," he agreed aloud. "Except where the beer's concerned. No perhaps about it! One for me, if you please, miss."

"So! I must hear it, Master Beacon. Tell me. How does one experience a...calling? More specifically, how did you receive your calling?" asked Matthew companionably once they were seated.

His own thoughts having strayed from religious matters, Arnholt was taken slightly by surprise by the question. "Hmm?" Belatedly, he brushed back his hood, in part to buy himself time to think. Not that there was much point in wearing a hood indoors. "Can't say how 'one' experiences a calling," Arnholt said. "But I can tell you how it was for me." His eyes grew distant as he went on, swiftly weaving a tapestry of fiction and memory. "Much like you, brother, I lost my family at a young age. But it wasn't an abbey what took me in. I had too much pride or too little sense in those days to look to the Church for aid. Instead, I put my faith in myself. Took to the streets of King's Court. Did what I had to do to survive." Returning to the present momentarily, his eyes flicked back to Matthew. "A practical man like yourself can guess what that means. I stole. I coveted my neighbor's ox, so to speak, and I coveted his purse as well. I damn well coveted anything that wasn't nailed down. Paid the price a few times, too. Those were hard years."

The fledgling cultist's lips twitched in a wry, almost-smile. "I fell in with bad company, as you can suppose. But that's what helped turn me around in the end. Because one day our gang was jumped by our biggest rivals. A good friend of mine, Lucky Luke we'd called him, got... what's the word? ...disemboweled. Died in my arms, practically. With his last breath he asked me to say a prayer for him to the One God. Well, brother, my lot won that fight. Most of the other boys just accepted it as our due an' went on like nothing had changed. But I'd changed. In my heart. Seeing Luke's luck run out like that, it left me wondering what it was all for. Him dying so young and with nothing to show for it. I did remember him in my prayers like he asked me. And as I was kneeling there in our run-down little church in the poor quarter, saying a prayer for poor Luke's immortal soul, I heard... this voice. Speaking to me like the answer to my prayers. And it says to me... 'Come home.' And that was all."

Arnholt gave another heavy shrug of his shoulders. "That's it, really. I left the streets behind me. Took honest work as a mechant's private guard, and started attending church regular. Found it satisfied something inside me. Still I... I swear I hear that voice in my dreams, sometimes. And finally, one day not so long ago, I figured out what it was trying to tell me." Now Arnholt was looking at Matthew directly, again, and this time with narrowed eyes. "I expect that sounds like a fat lot of nonsense to you. And maybe you'll say that voice I heard was nothing more than my own troubled conscience or what have you. But as for me, I believe it was an angel of the One God sent to save me, that day. My guardian angel. Whatever the case, I plan on taking up the cloth in order to help save other lost souls, so as to make amends for the wrongs I done as a kid. And out of thanks to the One God for changing my heart and saving my life. And, not leastly, because I know it's the right thing for me."

It was, simultaneously, the most outrageous lie that Arnholt had ever told and the most honest account of his life that he had ever given anyone to date. Granted, he'd skipped over several years of his continued criminal exploits as an adult. And he had conflated some of the events from his childhood with his more recent history. While Lucky Luke's death had indeed been a pivotal moment in his adolescence and had helped rekindle Arnholt's interest in religion, Luke himself hadn't been a very religious type, and had in point of fact died screaming for a healer to sew his guts back in. Nor was it exactly a divine voice that spurred Arnholt on in his present course. But he could hardly tell Matthew about Carminello, or about the daemonic artifacts that he had been entrusted with. All told, the explanation he did give was true in spirit, albeit rather iffy in the fact department, and so he was able to tell the story with absolute conviction. It would do for public consumption. And it would tailor neatly into any later revelations he might offer about whatever additional blessings his "angel" saw fit to confer on him.

"But now I'm curious, Brother Matthew," Arnholt remarked. "What brings you to this city? I gather it wasn't the Parrot Festival, seeing as how we're in here and not out there."

[Matthew]

Nodding as Bram spoke, Matthew did not interrupt or offer up any unwelcome opinions of Beacon's tale. At least his story matched Matt's already gathered opinion of the indomitable Bram Beacon's history (indeed, an archer with no bow could only be a highwayman), and in essence, it was rather expected. Near-death experiences were well-known to either bring people to their senses, bring them to God, or bring them to the brink of delusion (Matthew had once experienced a mother refusing to accept the reality of her deceased babe, a situation that was rather common according to the Brother Superior).

Either way, Matthew felt bad. He hadn't intended to surprise Beacon with his overly-inquisitive nature or his complete irreverence for the faith. In addition to turning the conversation back to their former serious tone, his question had sucked all the happiness out of the air and left the monk feeling genuinely embarrassed that he had even asked. Of course it would have been a life-changing event. Of course it would have had something to do with his rather seedy past. And of course Matthew would be just enough of an ass to ask. Naturally, the monk had to back-pedal and work to make Beacon comfortable once more.

"I...beg pardon for my thoughtless, invasive question, Master Beacon. Ah...I think perhaps it is...rather common for all of us to look to the divine for answers, as you have eluded earlier. I think perhaps you have had the advantage of finding it in your own two hands. If you were to ask me, that's where all answers can be found...in our own hands. Consider this, if you will humor me for a moment. Miracles. Are they the work of God, or are they the work of people, directed or otherwise? Whether they need some God to excuse their kindnesses or evils matters very little. I argue that miracles happen, but not from any God...it comes from our own hands. So it makes no difference if your guiding Angel was truly sent from Dominicus, or perhaps a tick in your ear, or brought fourth from your own heart. It is still a miracle, because you have taken it to heart...and I suspect you are better for it, I hope."

"Of course, such a comment might get me excommunicated by the Church, but you will find that monks care very little for the desperate, archaic whims of the Diocese. I would argue to you that Dominicus...and for that matter every God...is more a product of their adherent's will than any tangible will of their own. I might have once told you that I had been called to join the faith of Pan...but it turned out to only be puberty, and it passed in time. It gives me to wonder if the Gods...the old, the new, and the One...are merely excuses for their adherents to behave a certain way...or believe in a certain thing...or to serve in a certain way. Or perhaps to receive, power, wealth, or survival, the usual self-indulgences you mentioned earlier as well. Perhaps the so-called evil cults are little more than convenient excuses for a selfish soul to pursue his own personal indulgence under the guise of faith? After all, there is no clear definition of evil...and I've known some very sick and twisted Oneists in my day."

"I guess what I mean is, it matters very little to me how you were called, so long as you know you were called. After all, you could have answered that call in any way...but you saw in yourself something better, and you seized it. Any idiot could chase after the God of Sex...or the God of Drunken Debauchery...or the God of Merciless Blood-Letting or the God of Rape. But you chose a better path, and you had the strength to follow it on your own...and I would propose that you did so without the help of Dominicus."

Hopefully, that would do in the way of an apology. Hell...it was the most solemn (and the most heretical) Matt had been in yahren. All Matthew needed to do now was to get Bram's mind off of that horrifying scene in his past. He would change the subject away, and hopefully keep it light...

"As for me, well..." Matthew gave Bram a level, dead look, suddenly overly serious to emphasize the irony of it all. "You don't think the harvesting, preserving, and sales of seasonal fruit is a just and pious profession?" he said, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before Matt's face broke into a laugh. "I was bored! Do you know I can quote to you over sixty recipes for fruit preservation? I'm afraid it might just be that simple. I needed to leave Knottingshall...and Roque was the nearest city. Maybe I'm searching for the same kind of...calling...you had? Well...not exactly the same, what with the...death...and the evisceration..."

Dammit!! Failure!

[Arnholt]

"Hmm?" Arnholt said again. "No need for apologies, brother. It's important to be direct and forthright. You ever ask a question I don't care to answer, I'll let you know it, believe me."

The fledgling cultist bent his head in acceptance as to Matthew's interpretation of the meaning of miracles. That all sounded fair enough to him. However, when the monk went on to speculate that the gods might be more a product of the will of their followers than anything else, he would find Arnholt staring at him as if he'd suddenly whipped off his habit and revealed himself to be a halfling on stilts. Slowly, his hand came up once more to sketch the sign of Dominicus over his heart. Full of surprises, this Brother Matthew. A man of the world in monk's robes. A religious liberal, by Oneist standards. And a free-thinker, too? He did not have to feign his surprise upon hearing such heresy uttered by a man of the cloth. But of course he wasn't offended as some would be. Only intrigued, and wary.

"That's... a very interesting philosophy, Brother Matthew," was what Arnholt said. He ran one hand over his bald head thoughtfully, as another man might run his fingers through his hair. "I may not look much like a scholar, but the study of theology is something of a hobby of mine. So I don't mind saying I find your ideas intriguing and I'd like to discuss them further some other time. I can't say I agree with everything you say, but I do my best to keep an open mind. Ha! My faith is sturdy enough that I can stand to have it challenged." He leaned in closer and lowered his voice as he continued. "However, you know very well there are many within the Church who cannot say the same. You've said so yourself. I am not entirely naive about the inner workings of the faith, brother. I know well as you do there's plenty of hateful folks out there, people whose minds are as narrow as the edge of a blade. So please don't be offended when I advise you that you ought to be cautious of whom you trust with such talk. The danger is real."

The cultist's interest in Matthew's philosophy was unfeigned. In some ways, it was similar to his own way of thinking; how many people made a god out of Lust or Profit or what have you. At least among the pagans, most folks like that had the good grace to admit it outright, and embrace the faith of Pan or Pecunia. The point where they differed, however, was that for all his own native cynicism, Arnholt very much believed in each of the gods as... gods. Powerful entities with a will of their own. Still, Matthew's words left him wondering, idly, what impact the will of the faithful did have on their deity of choice. Might it actually be that Dominicus was the raving asshole that he was simply because so many of his followers were assholes, too? And if enough of the Oneists embraced the way of The Heart, might the One God stop being such a prick? Arnholt wasn't sure whether he believed that or not.

He wondered, furthermore, about Righteous. Arnholt followed Her, in part, simply because She had called him. And because he wanted justice (or at least revenge) for the real and perceived wrongs that Dominicus had done him. Now, Her followers had embraced Her as the Goddess of Justice. But how much of that image was real, and how much of it had been daemonic deception, or even mere wishful thinking on Carminello's part? More to the point... if Arnholt believed in Righteous firmly enough as his Goddess of Justice... might She actually come to embody that title as he envisioned it? The Goddess of Daemonic Justice, perhaps, but Justice nonetheless. In time, the Oneists will know her as the Great Adversary. The Scourge of God. Her Netheric rath will be focused on those most deserving of it. Because really, who in their right mind would want to worship the Goddess of Merciless Bloodletting? Not Arnholt. Murder might turn out to be a necessary tool, but he wasn't going to bow before it at an altar.

"I was bored! Do you know I can quote to you over sixty recipes for fruit preservation? I'm afraid it might just be that simple. I needed to leave Knottingshall...and Roque was the nearest city. Maybe I'm searching for the same kind of...calling...you had? Well...not exactly the same, what with the...death...and the evisceration..."

"Perhaps I'm the one who should apologize," Arnholt said, chuckling a little grimly. "Speaking of such things when we're about to eat. Forgive me if I seemed callous, Brother Matthew; I didn't mean to disturb you. But that was the reality I grew up with. You must understand, on the streets of the Poor Quarter, violence was as much a fact of life as..." He wove a hand through the air, struggling to produce a parallel. "...as... a bad storm flattening the berry patch. In any case, it was long ago. I have made my peace with my past. But perhaps now you can better see why a life of service and pulpit singing holds a certain appeal for me." He allowed himself an smile, which gradually grew into his trademark grin. "Happily, I don't expect you will need to experience the same in order to find your own calling. For that, brother, you need only follow your heart. And be prepared to listen... when the time is right."

And in time, perhaps, She will call you just as She did me. Then... and only then... we truly will be brothers.

[Matthew]

"HahahaHA!" laughed Matthew, his laughter a bold, robust, living thing that clearly had been well-practiced. Waving off Beacon's apology, "Oh, my dear brother, I do appreciate your concern...and it is very well taken, indeed. But I challenge you in this: Whatever will they do about it? As I have told you, any power you truly believe the Church might exercise is entirely imaginary! We do not vote on Civil Law...we do not hold Moot Court of the Hundred...we do not enforce the peace. Indeed, the only real threat I face is dismissal...and I can assure you, I wouldn't be the first employee to be sacked for doing a poor job, hahaha!"

"What I want to know is this. Why do so many people believe as you do?" Matthew sobered up a moment and massaged his right hand with his left...a common scrivening practice. "Take that woman in the parade, for example. Would it have been so wrong of her to just admit that the Parrot Parade was some ancient, heathen ceremony? Instead, she lied to you and tried to convince you that this...parrot...might be the Avatar of the One! Hahahaha! But she was in earnest, wasn't she? It was as if she feared that if she dared to name the festival for what it was, she would be taken up as a pagan and burned. And you know? Last yahren, she might have been...not by the Church, but by Royal Edict. Assuming the Roques would have enforced the Royal Edict in the first place...which, as I understand it, was not enforced overmuch. Hells...they sold exemptions to pagans in World's Mouth, I think, to absolve them of the Royal Edict. Can you believe it? An Indulgence...for being a Pagan...in exchange for Money! Tell me, brother...is that the work of Dominicus, or just the work of a few greedy, opportunistic people? If you want to find the great evil there, just follow the money."

Sitting back, the monk flexed his writing hand and let out a deep sigh. "Well...I have gone all preachy again. It seems we cannot stop ourselves, but at least it is enjoyable conversation. I just hope you won't allow the Church to hold your tongue for you, either. Indeed, you have the right of it...there are a few very narrow, hateful people in the Church...but there are a few like me, too. Oh, sure, I haven't actually met Dominicus, so I'm not yet convinced He's real...but at least I know right and wrong as well as...if not better than...most others in the Church. And I cannot be intimidated or bribed into forgetting it, either."

"Speaking of which...you will no doubt have an investiture or indoctrination into the Order. I don't know if the local Monastery will make some grand practice or ceremony of it, but if they do, I should be pleased if you would allow me notice to attend?" offered Matthew passively. "They will not think highly of me...Knottingshall is rather poor compared to the opulent wonders of the local Monastery...but I should be pleased to be in attendance if you would allow it. I can be reached here, of course. In fact, I have a room upstairs, so long as I can afford it."

[Arnholt]

"Well..." Arnholt allowed with a smile and nod. "I suppose you won't be in any immediate danger of being shipped off to Pax Balthasar as a pagan."

His humor faded, however, as Matthew continued. Finally the cultist just shook his head heavily. "People believe as I do, brother, because harsh experience teaches us to do so. Or because we have seen others made an example of. I forget that you come from Havarti, and not King's Court. Count yourself fortunate, then, that you never saw the work of the Gray Cloaks firsthand. People died, Brother Matthew. Pagans... accused heretics... people simply suspected of sympathizing with that lot. They were murdered in their beds or lynched in broad daylight. Their homes and businesses burnt to the ground, all in the name of Dominicus." Arnholt steepled his fingers, his face pensive. "The Gray Cloaks, of course, are sanctioned by neither Church nor state. But such men think themselves above the law, and not much was done to prevent them from acting as they did. I imagine that their victims took little comfort in knowing that the persecution they endured happened on an unofficial, shall we say extralegal, basis. So if I should seem overly paranoid, please know that in my experience, what the law says about heresy and what actually happens to accused heretics is not always one and the same."

Half smiling again, Arnholt went on, "But forget being exiled or burned at the stake. As far as I know, the Gray Cloaks and their ilk have no great following in this city, for which any Oneist with any sense should be grateful. The real danger I was warning of was the threat of excommunication, which you mentioned yourself. Roque d'Ancourt is famously unforgiving towards the unemployed, brother. I'll admit to some curiosity, therefore. If indeed you were dismissed, what would you do, and where would you go?"

Indeed, you have the right of it...there are a few very narrow, hateful people in the Church...but there are a few like me, too.

"That I don't believe," Arnholt said flatly. And flashed his easy grin. "I've met quite a lot of churchmen in my own day, brother. Some were fine men and others were rotten to the core. But not a single one of them was like you." He uttered a hearty laugh of his own. "Fact of the matter is, every other priest I met who wasn't convinced our Lord in Heaven was real was peddling indulgences. Not making light of them." And then the fledgling cultist frowned thoughtfully. "Priest, huh. Come to think of it, most of the holy men I've met before were priests, not monks. Well then... if it turns out there are others like you at the abbey where I'm headed, I'll consider myself to be in good company all 'round."

"Speaking of which...you will no doubt have an investiture or indoctrination into the Order. I don't know if the local Monastery will make some grand practice or ceremony of it, but if they do, I should be pleased if you would allow me notice to attend?" offered Matthew passively.

"Of course, Brother Matthew," Arnholt answered, genuinely gratified by the suggestion. "Nothing would please me more."

[Matthew]

As Bram related the genuine horrors of the so-called Gray Cloaks, Matthew's face conveyed his growing concern and amazement. Indeed, he hadn't been aware of such a...movement...and to hear that something of the kind could even continue was quite literally absurd. Oh, not absurd in that it couldn't be believed...there would always be thugs out to abuse people...but absurd in that something of the like would be tolerated for any length of time. In addition, any pair of criminals could arm themselves and threaten others...but this group of criminals did so under the guise of piety?

It seemed like the kind of problem that begged for the Purificatio...but that was unlikely for two reasons. First, the Purificatio needed the local magistrates to support them...they were powerless without their approval...and second, Matthew had never even seen another Inquisitor ever, much less one willing to dive into such a morass of hardship and ill-will. I could go, considered Matthew. It wouldn't take long to chase down the murderers and put a stop to it...but the monk had no idea who ruled King's Court in the absence of a King. It could be that these Gray Cloaks represented the only real institution of power in the capitol anymore. A depressing thought...but a very real possibility in these dark times.

So thoughtful was Matthew that he failed to hear Bram's next question. "Hmm? I beg pardon? ...oh! Well, I suspect it would change very little for me, given that I know not where I'll go or what I'll do even now. However, were such a thing to happen, what a...conundrum to the world I would be! What would one of your Gray Cloaks do if they should find me? A Oneist...who has been excommunicated? Not a pagan or a heretic...but a fish of an entirely different scale. That should be amusing...at least until I was killed, of course," Matthew ended with a confounded frown.

"I don't know, Master Beacon. I only know this. We...servants of the One...were not meant to hide behind dogma and abuse truth and justice. We are not meant to live in fear or careful, deliberate silence. I refuse any of those fates. If the Church chooses to cast me out for such a belief, then so be it. I would be better off without them if they would try such a thing, I think. Do you remember when I told you that you might be more successful reaching the masses here without vows to the Monastery? It is to this I eluded. We don't need the Church to do good, nor do we need it to worship the One, I suppose...anymore than the Gray Cloaks actually need Dominicus to pretend to do His works."

[Arnholt]

Matthew's consternation upon hearing about the Gray Cloaks did not go unnoticed. Arnholt sympathized, at least a little. He knew very well what it was like to have one's world tipped upside down, if only momentarily. He could have gone on to say that that band of renegade Oneists had been quieter since the end of the war, and that voices were beginning to be raised against them, whereas The Heart was only growing in popularity. But unfortunately, here was another one of those little points where camaraderie ended and business began. Why should he put a monk of the One at his ease? If a seed of doubt had been planted, then so much the better. As for the Gray Cloaks themselves, Righteous' justice would come for them, too, one day perhaps not long from now.

Not that Arnholt was as intimately familiar with their work as he was with that of the Inquisition. He had never known any of the Gray Cloaks' victims personally, only witnessed the aftermath: a charred heap of rubble or a swinging corpse. His enmity towards them, therefore, was entirely impersonal. Nor did he suppose he could necessarily claim the moral high ground over them. In order to do Righteous' work Arnholt was most likely going to have to fight far dirtier than Her enemies ever did.

However, were such a thing to happen, what a...conundrum to the world I would be! What would one of your Gray Cloaks do if they should find me? A Oneist...who has been excommunicated? Not a pagan or a heretic...but a fish of an entirely different scale. That should be amusing...at least until I was killed, of course," Matthew ended with a confounded frown.

"I don't think," Arnholt remarked, "that the Gray Cloaks would have as nuanced an understanding of your situation as all that. They aren't especially noted for the depth of their philosophy." Now he did flash a reassuring smile. "But be of good cheer, Brother Marrhew. It seems quite unlikely that it would come to that. Why should we entertain such an unpleasant hypothetical on today of all days? I don't claim to have much of a handle on all that parrot stuff, but it's clearly supposed to be a happy occasion. To your health." And he saluted Matthew with his glass before drinking (since the drinks had presumably arrived by now).

"We don't need the Church to do good, nor do we need it to worship the One, I suppose...anymore than the Gray Cloaks actually need Dominicus to pretend to do His works."

"True words, brother," Arnholt said gravely. "I'll drink to that." And so he did. But while wiping the foam from his beard, he added, "Not to say that the Church is not a source of strength to the faithful. By the One God, no! The Light of the One Monastery, in particular, has a reputation for having done great work on behalf of the people of Roque. I've heard that all are welcome there, and that the monks extend a helping hand to anyone who needs it, believers and pagans alike. A hand extended in friendship would not go amiss in this day and age, hmm? Or so The Heart teaches us anyway. And that's something I would be proud to be a part of." The cultist drank deeply, again, and set his mug down with a clink, grinning at Matthew from across the table. "As to the rest of what you say... I do believe, brother, that there is wisdom in choosing one's battles. Have no fear, however; I'd never allow myself to remain silent where truth and justice are concerned. Rest assured, you will find me on the side of justice every time."

[Matthew]

"Do they indeed?" replied Matthew regarding the Light of the One with some surprise, though in truth it didn't surprise him much. Monks were a curious lot, given over to service...but far removed from the patronizing, dogmatic sobriety of the Diocese. Their vows of poverty and service had a tendency to turn away those with an unnatural love of power or self, and this arrangement often placed them well beyond the speculations or judgements of their contemporaries. A monk had to be forgiven for impropriety, as few could challenge his devotion or ideals...or the vows he took. Not that a monk was immune to being corrupt...but there was far less with which to corrupt a monk than perhaps a priest, who did not take vows of chastity, poverty, and boredom.

Still, it seemed rather unusual from Matt's point of view. For him, being a monk was just another job...and while devotion to the ideals of the One might be the usual accompaniment for such a decision, he didn't reach that rigid association in his mind. Monks worked for the people and devoted themselves to charity...and in most cases, they just happened to worship Dominicus. Most monks Matt had met (and he had known a large number of them) seemed like the kind of people that would have been monks whether they worshipped the One God or not.

Perhaps for this reason alone, monks had a surly, almost radical reputation among the Diocese. Monasteries were the original homes of higher learning, and easily half of the books available at any market in the West were no doubt penned by a monk's hand: Matthew himself was an accomplished illuminator who could quickly replicate any work of text...human or adhiel...in under a month. But monks also had a tradition of writing their own thoughts on paper...and left to their own devices (without the worldly duties of a lay or parish priest, or the secular duties of the Diocese), they had a tendency to test the boundaries of the written word. Certainly, monks have transcribed the books of Dominicus...but they have also written comedies, love stories, adventure novels, and even poetry...a natural result of higher education, training in literacy, and lots of spare time.

Pausing as their meal was placed before them, Matthew pondered briefly on the actual purpose of the Light of the One. That the Order was rather well-placed and well-presented was certain...it seemed to have a good reputation with the locals...but Matt simply didn't know what the Order actually did from day to day. Knottingshall was perhaps far more typical as monasteries went, devoting time and effort into contemplation of the One (as well as the pious and just task of harvesting and preserving fruit to afford such a lifestyle)...but then, Knottingshall was well away from civilization. There were even rumors that the monks of Knottingshall did missionary work with the orcs of Le Bois Noir...which was patently false, of course, given the orc's tendencies to eat the occasional monk found in the countryside...but the rumors were at least consistent with the monastic lifestyle.

But the Light of the One was, like the Abbey of the Compassionate Heart, located within a city...and as such, it must do considerable charity to that end. Still, it begged the question of how it managed to do so. The Monastery had to finance itself somehow...and Matthew was curious how it did so. "I find myself curious about the Light of the One. It should be interesting to investigate their...methods," he said, giving voice to his curiosity. "I wonder if they pursue a particular industry to afford their livings? Or if they perhaps accept fees to educate the youths of Roque d'Ancourt? What do you actually know of the Light of the One, bother? We may be certain that they do not harvest and preserve fruits. I have seen their habits. They are far too white for that kind of work."

[Arnholt]

"I know of the monastery by reputation," Arnholt said. "Little more than that. I have heard the monks there described as great healers and scholars. Matter of fact," he went on thoughtfully, I suppose that your guess isn't far off the mark, brother. I heard tell it's the custom of the nobility around here to send their children to the monastery for their education. Being nobles and all, I guess they'd be willing to pay plenty for the privilege. Enough to support the monks' livelihood, and maybe help fund their charitable projects, besides."

Truth be told, Arnholt hadn't really given the matter of the monastery's funding much thought up until now. But of course such information might prove very useful to him in the future, if and when the Cult of Righteous grew large enough that he had to begin thinking about financial considerations. Thinking of it now, it did seem to him that milking money from the nobility in return for something as intangible as education was about as neat as arrangement as could be asked for, as far as the monastery was concerned. It was such a good idea, he'd damned well steal it for himself.

If I could make myself accepted as a teacher there, what an excellent opportunity that would be. A real chance to mold young minds. I find a few with promise, perhaps, and open their eyes to the way things really are. Even among the blue-blooded brats, there will be some who hunger for Justice. And having a noble or two in our pocket would do wonders for our cause.

"Matter of fact, the monastery's reputation for scholarship is one of the things that attracted me to this particular locale in order to answer His call. Like I said, theology's a special interest of mine. But I like reading about all sorts of things. My dad taught me, you see, back when he was... around. Anyway, you probably know the monastery's library is pretty famous, too."

[Syra]

ooc
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[Arnholt]

As the afternoon wore on, the conversation turned more to small talk and happier subjects as Arnholt had mentioned before. And, secure in his confidence that he had deceived the true monk quite neatly, Arnholt let his caution slip enough to let more than a few mugs of ale pass his lips before lunch was done. Within a few marks he had inadvertently followed through on his new friend's advice to become rip-roaring drunk on this, the last day of his former life before entering the monastery.

Later, Arnholt would have vague memories of assuring Brother Matthew that he was a very fine friend, a very very fine friend indeed, and that the One God must love him very much. He had even vaguer notions of telling the innkeeper that she was a damn fine woman, begging her pardon, and that he wished she could make an honest man of him, except that wouldn't be possible because "tomorrow I am to be monked." In any case, he eventually bid Matthew a good day, thanking him both loudly effusively for subsidizing one last round of worldly joy before his taking up orders.

And at length, fumbling out a few coins to pay for a night's lodging, Arnholt tottered off to his room while belting out an interesting medley of Oneist hymns, many of which came out oddly interwoven.

[Gutter Rat]

Fin. Locked for skilling.

Edit: Skilled and archived