CATALYST QUEST

Prologue

The town square is silent as the grave. Hundreds of peasants await your first sermon, standing obediently and waiting for you to speak. Your knuckles are white from clutching your holy symbol of Mercy so tightly. The story of the Catalyst has been told to you so many times, but it feels like a distant memory compared to the screams ripping across the town square.

Though the people standing before you remain paralyzed in religious observance and fear for their lives, those who remain on the periphery of the village are anything but. Your fellow priests— hands clutched in prayer— attempt to extract the unwilling from their homes as the rest of the town patiently awaits them. To try to intervene with their work could mean the death of the entire village. There isn't a man, woman or child before you that doesn't understand the might of the Church.

The year is 600, and in the country of Corcaea, the souls of mankind belong to demons.

Luckily for the people, the Gods are very real. The crowd stares at you with a mix of complete devotion and abject terror as you move to begin your sermon early. Father Edmund, your mentor, nearly jumps with fright as your timid voice begins. He grasps your arm to try to stop you. "Richard, give them some more time. Think of those in the back of the crowd."

You break away from his grasp, and step up into view. The rickety wood under your feet groans even under your slight frame. You are thinking of the crowd. Chronic headaches. Bullying. How hard your pious parents struggled to protect you. You grew up here, in the little village of Pontos. You think of the boy who tried beating you to death. How you were sure to be killed for breaking every bone in that boy's body with a simple prayer to Vengeance. The Church of Mercy's intervention. How you were taken from your home, your parents, and were certain you would never come to this place again.

The screams intensify as the sound of metal on flesh pierces the silence of the crowd. It elicits a sob from one man far at the back. Countless peasants around him rush to shush his outburst.

"I know you are afraid," you say quietly.

The crowd falls completely silent again.

You keep your eyes downcast on your holy symbol. It's a pair of outstretched hands. The timidness in your voice breaks as you lift your eyes over the crowd, and call out to them instead. "There is no need for fear. Your King, your Gods, and the Church of Mercy are here with you today. My name is Brother Anscham, and I am here to tell you about the Catalyst."

Scanning the crowd for any dissenters, you confirm the worst case scenario. Just beyond the edge of the square, your fellow priests are forced to back up towards the crowd. A mass of writhing, twisted flesh that was certainly once a man is visible. It seems to be in too much agony from the priests' ministrations to be of much harm— but there is no telling how many more citizens were inside of the village... or if the priests will be able to keep it down.

You keep your eyes firmly on the newly born demon as you speak to the crowd. The writhing mass of flesh is almost immobilized by the prayers of the other priests. Time will tell if it stays that way.

The strongest of demons are often unaffected by the Gods. This isn't even an imp, let alone a demon of much strength. You remind yourself that it's purely a matter of your fellow priests' will holding out. Their conviction seems strong, and they show no signs of wavering yet.

No matter how strong your feelings are towards these people, you cannot forget the teachings of Mercy.

Not now.

"Listen!" Your voice projects across the square towards the men and women in the back. Panic is thick in the air, but you spread your arms out in front of you, commanding their attention. "The Gods— in their infinite wisdom— saw fit to create us. They made us as shells. To serve them. To project their will! We are hosts! But—"

You pry your eyes away from the demon in order to better scan the crowd. The pause in your speech cuts through the panic like a knife while your congregation listens intently.

"We are hosts not only to the Gods. As vehicles for sin, we can become monstrosities through Magic— and even become demons." You raise your arms skyward. "Long ago, before King Magnus 'the Merciful' brought salvation to this land... in a time before there was time, there it STILL was: the Catalyst. Those who could not restrain themselves, and who could not control their inner turmoil let loose their pain on our world." You point, and accuse the demon at the back of the crowd. "Look! NOW! Look, all of you! THIS is what you can become."

Several men and women brings their hands to their faces to muffle their cries. The creature has been reduced to a smoldering mound of flesh, thanks to the priests continued ministrations. Their hands are grasped tightly around their holy symbols— sweat dripping off their faces— as they frantically advance towards the creature. Steam trails thinly off of its body.

"Look!" No doubt those still hiding in their homes can hear you. "Death and suffering is ALL that awaits those who scorn the Gods! The Catalyst is inside each and every one of us. It will never leave. Not so long as you turn a blind eye to your duty! You owe it not only to your King, your country, and your countrymen— you owe it to yourselves to quell your inner darkness!"

Silence retakes the town square. Father Edmund gives you a reassuring look from below the eaves you stand precariously upon. His gaze snaps across the square with sudden alarm. You nearly let out a gasp.

The peasants that were hiding in their homes heard you, alright. There's three more demons shambling towards the crowd. You need to act quickly.

A trickle of sweat creeps down the side of your face. The demons are rapidly approaching. Father Edmund is violently tearing into the crowd, in a desperate bid to reach your fellow priests more quickly.

You bellow, "let him pass!"

The command parts the crowd for your mentor. All he offers in thanks is a glance over his shoulder, before charging into the fray. He paints a gallant picture with mace and shield in hand.

All three of the demons are growing in size by the moment. Your fellow priests are already exhausted. Sweat and horror drenches them as they turn away from the singular, destroyed, and fleshy remains of just one demon.

Three new monstrosities are making a bee-line for your clergymen.

Swallowing hard, you nervously fiddle with your holy symbol.

Mercy give me strength.

"If you value your very souls— if you wish to live— come away from this carnage! Follow me to the crossroads!"

The tail end of your speech ends as you jump down from the wooden scaffolding. Even at your substantial stature, it's impossible to see the rest of the Fathers in the distance. Pushing your way through the crowd, you can just make out the heads of demons over those of countless peasants.

A quiet panic builds through the waves of bodies you're surrounded by. Screams rise from the back. Despite the Church of Mercy's best efforts, their resolve has been broken. Demons have reached the crowd.

You push through the throng as best as you can. Father Edmund forced you to take a shield and mace today, and you're seriously debating using it. The words of reassurance you call out fall on deafer and deafer ears.

There are simply too many people, and the smell of blood is on the air. A wave of terror crashes against the furthest reaches of the crowd. Something has happened, but it's impossible to see what. A woman's voice echoes over the building terror in the crowd. "He's got the PRIEST!"

A cacophony of panic follows. A bulwark of humanity kills your march towards the crossroads. Dread settles in the pit of your stomach.

I will die here if a human stampede ensues.

"WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE HERE!"

"I HAVE A CHILD, PLEASE—"

"LET ME THROUGH!"

Part of you enjoys violence. It makes you scared each and every time. You don't want to lose yourself. Still, these are desperate times. You've done worse things, and you have yet to lose yourself completely. An imperceptible smile crawls over your face as your hands stop trembling, and you tighten your grip on a mace and shield.

A man nearly knocks you over in his rush to escape. The smile across your face widens as you shout, "STEP ASIDE!" and slam your shield into his face.

As the peasant falls— clutching at his nose— you can see the demons still growing in the distance. Their forms begin to tower over the heads of your fellow men. It takes a few minutes of agonizing, precious violence ("I SAID STEP ASIDE!") to reach the wooden platform. The rickety, rotten structure sways dangerously against the waves of people pressing against it. You've never been so grateful to make use of your sickly frame.

You leap onto the platform, and instantly get your footing. Both hands are clasped together in prayer as blood pours forth from your palms and mouth. Sheer force of will keeps your knees from buckling. It is not blood loss, but euphoria that takes you. A Goddess works through your fractured mortal coil to influence the writhing mass that's become the village of Pontos.

Everyone— even the demons— stop moving for a moment as you finish the prayer. Blood is flowing freely from your hands, and you can taste copper on your lips. Finally, the congregation begins to slowly flow out of the village. Their trance could last days or seconds. It doesn't matter. "The Gods are Merciful—" you say, before collapsing.

The world goes dark.