Best to avoid the area around the office. Too many who might know me. There's nothing left there for me anyway.

He picked up some bits and pieces about the battle from the conversations between the other men on the boat.

They were filled with the kind of credulity and superstition you’d expect from the rude laboring classes. (One man insisted he’d seen a red dragon attack the Galtans, then switch sides for no reason). But useful to know what was commonly believed regardless.  

Consensus seemed to be that the initial battle had been over quickly, with the sack going on through the night. The Break had weathered it better than landside, which had enough wine and women to keep the soldiers occupied. The invaders were apparently making a big song and dance about how they would respect the property of foreign merchants and traders, so left their ships in the docks mostly alone.

Apparently the invaders had announced there were “safe zones” for civilians during the sack. Where you could go for healing and “pay what you want”, (which seemed like a poor parody of how Good people spoke, but the men seemed pretty sure that was what they said.)

Honestly Orgull almost admired the Mephistophelian cleverness of it.  

Tell people there was a place to go if you didn’t want to be raped and murdered. Then if you don’t go there, we'll you were warned. And if you do go any property you left behind was obviously free to pillage.Then they'd set fire to the "safe zone" anyway.

(Maybe the Senior Presbyter was wrong, had been wrong, about them lacking the spirit to be worth bringing back into the empire.) 

The Galtans  were apparently saying some kind of exotic devil had materialized out of nowhere and set the fires. Obviously if the new (temporary) regime says that an outsider serving Asmodeus set His own city on fire, it was of course the case. And nothing to do with all those well behaved soldiers. Chelish people understood these kinds of things.
 

When the boat reached the shore he hopped off quickly, and made his way uphill towards the center of the city. The Galtans had set up checkpoints at major intersections, but there were enough alleys and roofs that was barely an impediment.

Almost by instinct his footsteps led him to the Cathedral. Despite the signs of combat it was apparently in use, the fucking Abadarians had taken it over. Hanging big banners with that weird curvy symbol of theirs to cover pentagrams. 

For all their sanctimonious whining about Law  they certainly hadn't wasted any time stealing it. Taking a few gifts to expedite paperwork seemed rather meagre compared to letting Cyprian buy you off with a fucking cathedral. 

Senior priests were hung from the battlements of what used to be the Lord-Mayor’s residence. 

The Prelate, in deference to his rank, had pride of place above the front central gate. Flanked by the other senior clergy as in life. 

Orgull's old boss, the Senior Presbyter, was apparently considered just important enough for a place on the walls.

Some enterprising Galtan must have found the body in their office and taken credit.

They’d tied a noose around his already cut neck and hung him. 

They must have added some extra blood for effect as well. Surely there hadn’t been that much had there. It had been a quick and clean cut hadn’t it. 

His stomach was hurting. Shouldn’t have eaten that bread so fast after not eating for two days.

More junior priests had only merited lampposts.  

He saw two he recognized, a boy and a girl, Màtic and Donia, who’d started at the cathedral same time as him. 

The latter was missing her robes of office, but someone had helpfully painted a crude pentagram and the words “HELL PRIEST WHORE” on a sign around her neck to avoid any confusion. 

They’d all been junior priests together so naturally formed a little gang and would go out drinking together.

The group had been full of little rivalries and jockeying for position. But those two had a particular enthusiam for sniping at eachother. So much so that Orgull had once, sardonically, suggested they fuck already and get it over with. Their reactions of simultaneous and nearly identical outrage had been funny enough it became a running joke in their group. 

There was no rule against priests fucking eachother, obviously. But them both being the same rank made it a bit embarrassing.

As far as he’d known they’d never actually gone through with it.

Maybe once they were devils they'd get over themselves and one would buy the other. And when he joined them they'd laugh about how long it took them.

His stomach was really hurting now. Trust the Galtans to give the shitty sawdusty bread out to their collaborators.

He completed a circuit of the square, noting familiar faces occasionally. 

He wasn’t sure how many priests there had been in Ostenso to begin with, he knew the cathedral hierarchy but there’d be more with the navy, or little urban parishes. 

Maybe half of them were hung up? The rest must have been smart enough to flee like him. Or there wasn’t enough left of them to display. 

There must be others in the city surely. They could find one another, prepare for the counter attack. 

Maybe this was his opportunity. What he’d been waiting for. What Asmodeus prepared him for. His destiny was to take command of the remaining priests, then when they retook the city the Church would have to see how wasted his talents had been. 

Finding eachother would be hard. Any signal or sign could be noticed just as well by the occupiers and their collaborators. Doubtless they were already drawing up names of missing priests and setting bounties. 

Detect Evil might help? But anyone competent would be Evil anyway. 

He spent the next few days hiding, stealing food from the Galtan’s when he needed to.

He could survive that way, but it rankled at his pride to be sleeping on bare floors, worse even than the orphanage, stealing food like a child, and washing only in the cold awkward way you could with create water.

Besides, if he never went outside, how was he supposed to find and lead the other Chosen. It would be simply embarrassing if the Queen retook the city tomorrow and he had done nothing of note.   

Orgull visited one of the more reputable but still inconspicuous dockside inns which rented out rooms above it.

Hostaler Bernat who ran the place was a stout, unimaginative looking man, who’d served in the navy, then used his plunder money from the capture of an Andoran pirate to buy the inn and pay the bribes to be left alone by the dockwatchers. 

A good Asmodian, Bernat had always been generous with the free drinks and tolerant of a bit of mess when the gaggle of young Chosen Orgull had hung around with had, in his words, “patronized his humble establishment with their presence and wisdom”. 

He’d now covered up the more obvious decorations, and raised Abadar to pride of place in the little corner shrine, but you could still tell he was loyal. Bernat was that kind of honest practical man who would have no truck with lesser Gods. 

The hostaler's prices were certainly worthy of Mammon right now.

Even though most of the soldiers had now been moved out of the city prices for basic things were still high. (Supposedly they'd gone home in triumph, but more likely were campaigning inland, fighting over the rest of Cheliax. Which would explain why the Queen’s army hadn’t got here yet.) 

Bernat would only accept paper for a tenth of it’s normal value (apparently Galtans wouldn’t take bribes or taxes in it, idiots didn’t understand how paper currency worked). Orgull was loathe to hand over the gold and gems he’d confiscated from the Senior Presbyter’s office and the price for a damp cramped room was close to what Orgull had previously paid for his comfortable set of rooms near the cathedral. 

Orgull initially tried to approach him subtly at the bar, but Bernat failed to recognize him, and had the bouncer eject him when it became clear he wasn’t buying his overpriced swill.

Annoying but understandable. Even without Disguise Self it would be hard to connect a grimy unshaven laborer to the suave and well-tailored Chosen of Asmodeus who had visited before. So Orgull didn’t hold it against him.

Later that night, after the Galtan’s curfew had cleared the streets and sent the drunks and staff home, Orgull snuck through the back to find the hostaler alone.

Before he could shout or say a word Orgull lifted his holy symbol from where it had been languishing under his shirt, and Light shone out from it, illuminating the cramped and greasy kitchen with the power of Lord Asmodeus.

The man was instantly diffident, and after giving effusive thanks for Orgull's survival, swore on his soul, his Law, and his faith in their Lord to not betray him. 

They then had a pleasant chat over some cheese and ale, and agreed that, in exchange for being given room and board, Orgull would supply the inn with clean water.

Which given the current shortage of clerics, would let them significantly undercut their competitors. As well as offer luxuries like actual baths and beer that only got you sick in the expected way. 

Orgull would also perform mending and purifying as needed, for only a nominal fee. And spoke, carefully non-specifically, of the benefits of having displayed one’s loyalty when the Queen retook the city.

The hostaler accepted the deal after only a little perfunctory haggling for discounted healing, and Orgull worried he'd been too generous. But it was important to reward the faithful in such times and after near a week of sleeping rough, an actual bed and hot food felt like the hospitality of Dispater’s palace.

Despite the unaccustomed luxury he didn’t sleep very much that night.

He lay fully clothed with his dagger at hand facing the door, expecting a dozen singing Galtans to smash their way in. But he got through the night uninterrupted, and woke with the sun to pray. 

Lord Asmodeus, I thank you for your beneficence in guiding me towards your loyal followers. While all mortals are weak and contemptible those who have accepted you into their heart hold true despite the barbs and predations of the infidel. I hope they reach their just reward in Hell. 

Give all speed to her Majesty’s Army, so that they might liberate us from these occupiers, and demonstrate Your might and wrath. I humbly beseech you to continue to guide me in your service…. 

Orgull filled the cisterns as agreed then went down for breakfast.

The cook was a small bitter looking woman who reminded him of the orphanage matrons, but after he gave her a bit of smile and charm she made him the most amazing omelette, light and fried with onions and potatoes in the Ostenso style. His house-slip had never managed to do it right, despite repeated encouragement. 

He took the tray up to his room, although the common room was near empty, with only a few knots of people keeping to themselves in the corners, it paid to be careful. 

He spent that first day mostly in his room staring out the window. Despite the night’s rest, and having spent most of the last week just waiting and doing nothing, we found he had little energy.  

He’d asked for this room specifically, despite it not being the biggest or best appointed. It was one of two top floor rooms, with boxy dormers for windows sticking out the slanted roof. Always have an escape route.

This one faced the street and, if you stuck your head out and craned it precariously to the left, you could see the blue of the sea, and the waving masts of the ships in harbor. Still there but depleted, like a forest halfway through clearing.

The street was busy enough to make good watching, with hawkers back to selling their wares, dockmen buying street food - and the notoriously aggressive Ostenso seagulls doing their best to steal it. 

He watched the drama play out a few times. Inevitably if one succeeded at stealing a man's lunch and escaping out of his reach, it would be mobbed by the rest of the flock, and lose most if not all of its prize. 

It was the kind of thing that Sergei would have loved to make into an allegory about the merits of Law and discipline. Though you could equally do a sermon on how the conflict rewarded the strongest seagull, as was right and proper. 

He spent most of the next few days in that room, observing the street for familiar faces or other actionable intelligence. Occasionally providing more water or Mending a broken cookpot or torn clothes. Only sneaking out in the dark, exploring the roofs nearby, and learning the area.

He had Bernat send a boy out to a tailor for new clothes for him. Nothing fancy, the kind a moderately prosperous merchant might wear. 

The clothes the soldier Arnau - may he serve You truly in Hell as he did on Golarion - gave him had been useful while he was in hiding, and loose enough he’d been able to sew some gold and gems into the seams unobtrusively. But they were uncomfortable and frankly ugly, even with washing there was only so much you could do about the blood.

In the evenings he’d join the crowd in the busy common room keeping his appearance disguised.

He tried out a few different guises through the week, a dockman, a merchant, even Vindencia one time for a laugh. Though that got him a bit too much attention to use regularly. 

He needed a signal so the barman knew it was still him. They came up with a code where he would say he was a “friend of Asmodia” to get his free drinks, which Bernat always chuckled at appreciatively. 

The bar was a comfortable space despite the occupation people were laughing and gambling, and were happy to take a stranger who bought his round and lost more than he won at dice.

Most wouldn’t be drawn on politics too much, but the general impression he got was that the Galtans seemed soft-hearted and gullible, easily swayed by sob stories of how terrible the old regime was. They agreed with his assessment that they couldn’t last, but sensibly didn’t want to talk further about the Queen’s return. Nobody wanted to be reported to the new authorities, however feeble they seemed they’d know how to deal with dissenters.

On the evening of his fourth day, while hanging around the bar at closing time he got chatting with Bernat. And the topic of healing shortage came up.