You could tell the Priest was special the moment you saw him. The adults were scared of him, you could tell, and not the way they were with the Director, where she was yelling, mocking and cursing trying to make them scared and they stopped being scared the moment she left.

The Chosen didn't even care. He didn't have to say anything, and they were terrified the moment he walked in. He never yelled to make them be quiet and listen to him, the whole room, even all the scary adults who weren’t from the orphanage, just went quiet.  

The Priest was just like Asmodeus. He did exactly what he wanted, whenever he wanted, he wasn't scared of anyone. He wore clothes with darker blacks and brighter reds than the boy had ever seen. He was big and strong like a mountain, like he ate meat three times a day.

For the next few years whenever the boy said his nightly prayers, in his mind the image of Asmodeus was that priest.

In his memory looking back at it he understood everything in that moment, but really, he must have been too stupid to understand it all at first. But he learned over the coming weeks and months who Asmodeus was.

He'd said his prayers before of course, thanking Asmodeus for their food, their clothes, for making Cheliax his, for making the world, for taking them in when they were so worthless even their parents had abandoned them, but it wasn't the same. He never understood why Asmodeus wanted to feed useless orphans like them. If he ever thought about it at all he thought that was just Asmodeus's job, same as the orphanage workers job was to keep them quiet, and the Director's job was to make the orphanage staff do their jobs.

But the priest explained it all. Asmodeus didn't do those things because He had to, He didn't have to do anything. He was the strongest most powerful most clever god in the whole world. Nobody could tell him what to do. He did it because he wanted to.

Asmodeus wanted to own them and their country, the same way he wanted the best food before the other kids could get it. Or the warmest blankets. But Asmodeus was strong, He wasn't afraid of anyone. When He wanted something He took it, and made it His.

Asmodeus didn't want everyone though. Babies were too worthless and couldn't do anything fun. It wasn't even funny to poke them after a while. Even most adults were too weak and silly for Asmodeus to want them, they prayed to stupid weak gods, followed stupid weak kings, spent their lives on silly things not proving how valuable they were to Asmodeus.

You had to show Him you were worth having, you could be strong and be a soldier, be smart with your letters and figures and be a wizard, or best of all, if you were really really special you could be a cleric. One of the people Asmodeus Chose even before they died. Because they knew how to be like Him, and do the things He told them better than anyone else.

After the sermon they got to see the Chosen punish a heretic, though it was just an old lady that time. He didn't even have to take out a whip and beat her like the teachers did. He just looked at her, and said "See what happens when you displease Asmodeus and his Chosen" and the woman began to scream and bleed.

(Later, with the benefit of adult hindsight, he'd realize the priest did it too quick to really get into the artistry of it, but the boy didn't know better yet.) 

Regardless, the point was made. That was power, that was what the priest had, and they didn’t. And what Asmodeus had more than anyone else.

As they walked back through the snowy city streets he sidled up to the orphanage worker who was herding them back. And asked her, guilelessly, what he needed to do to be a priest of Asmodeus, like the Chosen. "Asmodeus likes little boys who do what they're told and aren't a nuisance. So you can start now by shutting up".

He understood perfectly.

As he got older and started going to real school he learned better what "doing what you were told" meant. It meant doing what the teacher said in the classroom, and not bothering them the rest of the time. As long as you didn't take all the meals from one kid, so he'd be too weak to do chores, or he'd fall over in class. Then you got beaten for annoying the teachers. 

The smart thing to do was not just take from one kid, if you took just somebody's meat every Oathday, or someone else's porridge every Toilday, they wouldn't make a fuss and complain or fight you. As long as you kept it consistent.

People liked the rules, it made them feel like they knew what was going on, like they’d had a choice about it. He made a lot of friends that way. Friends gave you their food, or did some of your chores, or did other things you told them. So he got lots of friends.

Sometimes the bigger kids, especially the ones with real parents at home so got more food and got bigger, tried to fight him.

Because by then he was the leader of the orphan boys and they wanted to remind them they were worthless, or because they wanted his stuff, or just because it was funny.

But most of them didn't really know the difference between playing and fighting. A fight wasn't about showing off how strong you were or acting like a Hellknight or Adventurer from the stories.

It was about making people hurt.

Even if you got hurt even more, you kept it all inside, you didn’t act weak and pathetic. And you made the big kids hurt enough, they knew it wasn't worth bothering you, even if they won.

A bigger kid cried one time, out of the eye that wasn't bleeding, said it was unfair, that he was cheating. He just laughed and laughed. Asmodeus wouldn't say something was unfair. Asmodeus didn't have to obey any rules, Asmodeus took what he wanted, and nobody could stop him.

It wasn’t enough for the other kids to do what you told them. You had to impress the adults, just like with Asmodeus, let them know you’re not totally worthless. 

He took charge of the other kids at the orphanage, making them do their chores, looking after the babies, putting up with their smells and their tantrums. Reporting their progress to the orphanage staff efficiently and precisely. Letting them learn to rely on him. So when it came time to sell off the kids for indentures, they wanted to keep him around.

The same skills that worked on the kids also worked with orphanage staff and the teachers at the school. You had to be careful. You couldn’t fight an adult, not directly. But knowing who’s list had a few too many kids' names on it, who were still getting money for food despite having not been around since last winter, that helped a lot. 

You didn’t make threats to people who were stronger than you, you made yourself useful, like a friend, but one they didn’t have to worry about hurting them because you were so much weaker. Even if it meant listening to a teacher whine about his wife, or cover for him when he’d drunk a bit too much at lunch.

Then you remembered. You could get some favors, and a little money on the side, if you were careful. 

He started memorizing what the priest said in the sermons and quoting it at every opportunity. Having a reputation for piety never hurt, and it made disciplining the other kids more effective when you could tell them it was correct what you were doing, and why they were weak. 

Then he got one of the teachers who owed him a favor to assign him to helping out at the temple. It was mostly just scrubbing the floors same way as the orphanage, but you got to listen to all the different sermons, if you stayed silent and hidden at the back, and cleaned up afterwards. 

Even the really interesting sermons he gave to small groups of minor nobles, wizards and merchants. Or they’d come to him individually and he’d talk to them, not as equals, but like people who mattered more to Asmodeus than the worthless peasants. 

They couldn’t be very important, or they wouldn’t be going to a small church in the arse end of Belde. But still, it was like hearing the teachers talking in the staff room when they thought you couldn’t hear, when they said which kids were stupid, which they had to be nice to because of who their parents were, who was sleeping with the headmaster this week. You started to see the hidden patterns underneath everything. 

But most of all you got to be around the Chosen and try to impress him and show him you could be useful.  

He did well in school (it was easy when you could get other people to do the work for you). 

High enough to give the whippings and not take them, and at no risk of being kicked out.

But not so high that it would look odd that when the wizard came by to read their thoughts, and point at the ones who'd be taken, he barely glanced at Orgull. 

Orphan boys rarely got chosen for the seminary, however pious they were. But he was different.

At the end of his final year of school the teachers told the priests who came to choose that he was their most diligent and obedient pupil, who kept his peers in line and knew all his scripture.

He even had a letter of recommendation from his local priest, the same chosen he'd seen all those years ago, and served diligently and obediently. 

There was no question at all.

At the seminary he felt like dealing with the kids at the orphanage again. But instead of playacting fighting they were playacting at being Evil. They did the sort of things they thought they were supposed to do to be evil. Made scary faces at each other, did petty cruelties in a forced and unimaginative way, tortured people when they were told to, it all seemed very silly to him.

Evil isn’t complicated. You take what you want, do what you want, just like Asmodeus does. Except he’s in charge. He can make you do things, so you do what he wants you to do, and it helps you get what you want.

You hurt someone because it gets you what you want, or because it's fun, or you’re bored. Or you are nice to them because that’s an easier way to get what you want. You do what you are told because even if it’s annoying right now it gets you what you want.

Eventually, they got to the important part.

They'd be locked in their dorms without water, until the best of them could make their own. The Instructor Priests put on their very serious faces and said that sometimes it took weeks.

(Seemed a bit silly to him, if you weren't good enough for Asmodeus now, that was your own problem. But if the already Chosen wanted to have some fun at their expense who was he to complain.)

Then they'd establish the real hierarchy, with the first Chosen giving water to those they thought would be useful to them, and waiting for the rest to die off. 

That night Orgull sat on the bed in the bare cell they'd given him. Still wondering at the luxury of having a room of his own. And he prayed. 

It was like that first moment in the church again.

He saw Asmodeus in his mind. 
He saw what it was to be like Him.
He wanted that. 
He wanted to belong to Asmodeus.
He wanted to obey Him.
He wanted to be Chosen.

And so he was.

He emerged from the basement filled with the comforting certainty that being one of the first Chosen would lead to everyone naturally recognizing his favor from Asmodeus and putting him on top of the student hierarchy. Because Asmodeus recognized his value. Asmodeus cared about him.

But apparently everyone was more impressed by being the eighth child of some noble who might conceivably be able to do them favors some day. Or knowing some fancy words and a big city accent. It was unfair. 

Expressing the opinion that relying on someone else’s strength made you weak and pathetic did not in fact win him many friends. He was right though.

He had the unpleasant experience of being at the receiving end of things for the first time since he was a very young boy. Petty things like spilling ink on his notes, messing with him with cantrips in deniable ways, mocking his birth and his accent.

He could see where this would go: They’d gradually escalate over time until one went too far and he was seriously hurt. The Instructor Priests might give them a token punishment, but they’d have no sympathy. And it would keep getting worse until Asmodeus dropped him for being so Pathetic, or he died.

He was angry at himself. He'd done exactly what he was supposed to do, ignoring the petty rivalries in favor of focusing his all on his devotion to Asmodeus. Just like he was told to. Believing like a child that he'd be rewarded for it. And missing his chance.  

Now the best he could hope for scraping by and keeping his head down. Fade into the background. But that wasn't enough. He was Proud as Asmodeus taught them. He deserved better than this. He was special. Asmodeus knew that. Why couldn't everyone else see it.  

The Reverends didn't interfere in competition among students, and even implicitly encouraged it. It pleases our Lord that there is Hierarchy in all things.

But if you proved your value to them, they sometimes gave you advice. Reverend Sergi had a weakness for young men who wanted to learn more about their Lord's domain's of submission and tyranny. He didn't enjoy it, but that wasn't the point.

So was willing to answer some of his questions and point him to the things he needed to read that seemingly everyone else knew already. (Not all his classmates had the benefit of noble tutors in Infernal or Taldane, but almost all had a better education than an orphan boy.)

"Reverend, forgive me my ignorance, but would it not serve our Lord better to have his servants be those who could serve him best? If a noble or their child is skilled enough, they can demonstrate it. But why ought the Church elevate some simply based on their birth?"

"Our Lord isn't Abadar or Gorum, Trickery is as much His domain as Tyranny. What matters is that you have power not how you get it.

Some shithead bastard son of a Duke manages to leverage that into power? That pleases Asmodeus.
You push people around because you're big and strong? That pleases Asmodeus.
You beat both those guys because you're smarter? That pleases Asmodeus.

And it pleases Asmodeus for those with power to enjoy it."

He thanked the reverend for his wisdom and departed. 

The next day he approached one of the servant girls:

“Oi girl, I wanna talk to you”

She froze when he first called out to her, then turned and replied “Chosen? I am of course at your service for whatever you desire” while meekly looking at the ground. 

“Keep yer’ breeches on girl, just thought I recognized yer accent. Yer from the farms out West of Belde arncha?”

She looked up at that, released some of the tension in her posture, a bit of interest sparking in her eyes, like an actual person for a moment.

“Aye! My father worked the Count’s lands north of the river. ‘Bout three days walk towards the mountains. Near Mas Rieral, if yer know it.”

“Ahh, thought I heard a twang in you. Good to hear a familiar voice, even if they want us speakin’ all proper here.

My family lived other side of the high road. Didya ever go to market day at Puigaverna?”

She almost certainly hadn’t, she’d likely never travelled more than a day from her family farm. But it was close enough to feel like a connection, and the orphanage’s cook was from there.  

They spoke a bit more, him mostly asking her questions. She was an indenture, like one of the ones he’d narrowly avoided. But not as hardened as the orphanage kids.

He was vague about his family, and downplayed his position. “Ah being Chosen ain’t all its cracked up to be. You gotta act all serious and scary all the time. But its all a loada bluster”

He visited her in the kitchens a few times over the next few days. Being friendly and keeping his hands to himself, learning from her about how the servants worked, and picking up bits of gossip.  

She slipped him extra food sometimes, which he didn’t really need now, but it was good to have a friend.  indicated she could be a reliable tool.

Later that week he knocked on the door of the chambers of one of the noble-born students. 

He had sent a note in advance, in carefully neat but simple handwriting, asking to meet. So he only had to wait while she slid back the grate at eye level, confirmed it was him, and removed the bars and locks from within. 

As he entered, she stepped back, keeping a few paces between them.

She had the broad solid build and rounded cheeks he associated with wealthy children. She had a few inches on him in height and tried to emphasize it with how she stood, head tilted to look down at him, affecting a bored and contemptuous air.  

From the corner of his downcast eyes, he caught glimpses of the room around her. A warm-looking quilt on the bed (embroidered with tasteful patterns of hunting devils, in red and black), smooth white paper on the desk, bottles of spirits and wine on the far shelf. All strictly against the rules. It pleases Asmodeus for those with power to enjoy it.

His mouth tasted of acid, his throat was full of hot coals, his stomach throbbing painfully. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to scream. He wanted to swing at her in jealous rage.

Slowly and deliberately, he bowed to her. Not the carefully rank gradated bows between priests, but on his knees in the abject supplication of a peasant before his Lord’s throne.

 “My lady, I come to seek your forgiveness for my transgressions.”

Strictly the title wasn’t necessary. She referred to herself as the Daughter of a Count, but from the gossip she was the fifth child of a third wife, legitimate, but far from inheriting. Raised in proximity to power but not having it herself.

“I spoke out of ignorance in our early lessons, and did not appreciate the nature of nobility, and wisdom of my betters. But scripture teaches us that even the least of Cheliax, the poorest peasant, the most wretched orphan, can serve our Lord well by devoted submission. I wish to offer you my service, and in so doing learn how best to serve our Lord.”

Now to see if he had judged her correctly. 

She didn’t smile. She was Chelish, and some peasant boy supplicating himself wasn’t going to flatter her into letting her guard down.

(But he might notice her posture shift slightly. More upright, more relaxed, still with tension in her arms.)

She’d paid the boy little attention previously, beyond joining in with the others in showing him his place. Such utter abasement was undignified for a Chosen, and a marked shift from his prior impudence. It could be a trick, but he was only a peasant boy. And she’d never had a servant of her own before. 

Before speaking she drew out the knife she’d concealed in her robe, and idly picked at her nails with it, looking down at him with aristocratic contempt.* 

“It is well that you have come to understand your place better, however long that might take it shows some capacity to learn. But I have concerns of my own, and little time to discipline a hound. Were I to grant you my patronage your behavior would reflect on me as well. What value do you bring that it is worth my effort? And why are you dirtying my floor, not that of another of your betters you insulted?”

*She'd seen a noblewoman in an opera do it, before flaying her treacherous lover with the same knife he'd gifted her. A love of the theatre was one of the few things she and her father shared. 

Because you are high enough to act as a protector, but low enough this is worth something to you.

Because none of the others with influence are staunch allies of yours. 

Because you've never abused the servants, so will likely be a soft touch with me as well. 

Because, judging by your unguarded expressions, you have no particular attraction to men. 

She would brush off the most obvious flatteries, she’s suspicious. Needs to be something that feels plausible, while still flattering her self-image. Not just birth then, or beauty, something she can credit to her own actions. 

He allowed a little more confidence into his voice: "I am ignorant of noble politics, so perhaps if I ought to have gone for others were I purely seeking patronage." A strike, but a deniable one, enough to demonstrate he was not an utter idiot. 

"But I do not merely wish protection. I meant what I said about learning to serve our lord best." I am an earnest and naïve peasant boy. 

"I observed your performance in class. You use the powers our Lord grants you with finesse and skill." You can cast an acid splash under the desks, near silently, narrowly targeted. 

"And you perform near perfectly in catechism, where my sadly limited education has left me at a deficit. I could learn these from you, and you could teach me to serve you better. I can serve you in whatever menial ways you desire, a Lady of your station should not be troubled to carry her own books, or clean up the mess after practical classes.” I will raise your status. Others will see you have another Chosen, even a lowly one, at your beck and call. 

“And being of little note to others I may pick up occasional tidbits that they would know to hide from one such as you.” And bait. 

That is such obvious bait. She’s not going to fall for that.

Still though, peasant boy is showing some glimmers of initiative, that should be encouraged right, Effective Tyranny means Cultivating Useful Subordinates. And all this scheming is such fun.

“Oh? What sort of things have you heard?”

“I know that Novice Jordi has not slept in his own bed for the last two nights.

That Deacon Ramona drinks herself to sleep every night and barely wakes up to pray for spells, and has Acolyte Laia write all her lectures.

Oh and Vicar Diego is sweet on you, but I’m sure you knew that one already.”

She is not rising to that one. She is not.

“You are not completely blind I suppose.”

She is Reasserting Control of the Conversation. Time to Pause to Emphasize Hierarchy, (she counts in her head, one devil, two devils, three devils, four devils, five devils).

And now the Magnanimous Gesture to a Promising Servant. 

“Oh and you may stand.”

He stands, making eye contact but maintaining his slumped submissive posture. 

“Seems you may be of some small use to me. Now swear to me that you have told me no lies and you intend to serve me truly." 

He paused for a few moments. It would be suspicious if he didn’t, they’d had all these classes about how important law and oaths and exact words are.

“I swear upon my honor, my Law and my Choosing that, to the best of my knowledge as a flawed and ignorant mortal, every sentence I have spoken to you today has been true.”

He'd checked them all beforehand after all.

“I swear to offer you service as described previously for the duration of our time in the seminary, or until such time as you release me, conditional upon you offering me such patronage, protection, and tuition as is appropriate recompense for my efforts. Provided it does not interfere with my service to our Lord.”

She kept her face impassive as was fitting. The words washed over her, the boy was mostly using the standard forms anyway, with a little divergence which was only to be expected from the barely literate. 

She had a servant of her own! Her own Chosen as a minion, that practically made her senior clergy already right. Her stupid sisters with their stupid babies and stupid spells would be so jealous.

“Your service is accepted.”

The change was surprisingly sudden and complete. 

The next day their classmates saw him carrying Vindenca's books, following behind her, and doing other little chores. And he found that suddenly his robes and notes ceased needing daily mendings. And the appearance, birth, or accent of another was more worthy of comment.  

When Vindenca spoke with the other nobleborn he was there in the background, not speaking unless spoken to naturally, but he heard their conversations and began to understand better how the nobility thought, and the ways the world worked. 

The other students warmed up to him too now he was no longer the designated victim. He even had some recurring acquaintances in the other students who’d chosen to become minions to the more powerful. Sharing occasional knowing glances and rolled eyes when their betters were talking about somethig particularly inane.

He traded information and favors, the old habits returning like the easy way a hand sits on a knife. He knew more than most because of his in with the servants (though he was careful to keep that quiet) and overhearing the noble brat’s conversations. 

He had a place here now, he was useful again, he was safe. But that wasn’t enough.

During his morning prayers he meditated on the nature of Domains. 

They were told that Lord Asmodeus would assign them domain spells and admonished for any thought of questioning his decision. Their materials also talked in passing about Clerics “choosing” their domains. And teachers would expound at length on what domains to “aim for” because they were most useful to the Church.* 

Trickery was not one of these. While it was encouraged in the abstract, for cleverly written contracts and so on, the spells were little valued. 

Reverend Sergi commented that being able to disguise oneself was, he supposed, a useful thing for those who had to operate in countries that their Lord had not yet conquered. But they were Chelish, a Priest of Asmodeus in Cheliax shouldn’t have to sneak around like a common criminal. The church preferred you to be able to fight their enemies more directly.

* This was a fairly normal level of contradiction for one used to the Chelish school system. 

Though Orgull had begun to question how much to listen to such things. The church hierarchy seemed often to want perfect little axiomites who would follow orders, and could be requisitioned on demand like shipments of a hundred identical breastplates for the front.  Not true Asmodians like him. 

Asmodeus would obviously want his servants to be strong, like Him, and pursue their desires, like Him. But the Church were too weak to properly enforce their will on their subordinates so wanted them weak. 

So he meditated on Trickery.

He had given Vindenca what she wanted, but for his own reasons, and gotten what he wanted out of it. The appearance of submission, but not the reality. 

Lord Asmodeus, isn’t that the best kind of Trickery? Someone thinks they’re strong but really you are? Does this not please you? 

He’d been careful with his words to promise nothing at all, while sounding like he promised everything. So his Law was safe when he traded away her secrets, or if he needed to betray her. A twinge in his stomach at that thought for some reason.

Wasn’t that a beautiful thing Lord? Wasn’t that the essence of Law?

He didn’t just want to be a little minion forever. He wanted to take what they had, he wanted to beat them, even if they didn’t know it, he needed to prove to himself and his God that he could do it. That they were weak and didn’t deserve power. That he was stronger than them. Better than them. That he was safe.

There was a feeling. Like when he’d first been Chosen.

A moment like looking up at a roiling storm consuming the sky, like plunging into the water of a roaring river, like standing on the edge of the orphanage roof, like staring into a bonfire, feeling the warmth sink into his bones, watching the pages crackle and curl as they burnt.

It was only the slightest moment. His Lord could only spare him the tiniest mote of attention of course, but he knew what that feeling meant, it was acknowledgement of his worth, it was approval, it was love. 

And he felt in his mind, alongside his other spells, like a finger on his hand that had always been there, something new he could do.

After a few days of discreet experimentation he was confident enough to begin the first stage of his plan. 

He put on the face of Novice Fernando, one of the leaders of the noble cliques. They were about the same height, and all the novices wore the same robes (black with a small red trim, none of the elaborate ornamentation of the higher ranks). So he just needed to focus on the other boy’s smug face in his mind as he cast the spell. 

Sneaking into one of the other nobleborn’s rooms was trivial enough for a boy who had grown up in the orphanage. The trick was being seen leaving. 

While he waited he moved some items around the room, just a little out of place, ruffling letters but not reading them (reading another students personal correspondence was forbidden). He tried a few dates from the bag hidden under the drawers, and pocketed a bottle of nice red ink. Both of which were only there because people looked the other way at luxuries smuggled in for nobles.

Being unlawfully possessed, it was no violation of Law to confiscate it. He’d checked. And Chosen are encouraged to take initiative in redressing violations, so it probably helped his Law even. 

Then when he could hear there were other novices down the hallway “Fernando” snuck out of the boy’s room. He was far enough away they wouldn’t be certain it was him, but enough to raise suspicion. 

(They’d had some brief tactical discussion of how to deal with illusory magic, it was generally felt to not be much of a threat, as a group of guards, or a single vigilant priest, would spot an imposter given a moment to look at them properly. Nobody else seemed to take the obvious lesson from that.) 

Over the subsequent weeks he tried a few more variations on the theme. Being sighted in one face or another where he shouldn’t be. And confiscating contraband goods where he found them. 

The little pleasures were nice, he enjoyed the foods he wasn’t used to, eating honeyed cakes for the first time, candied fruits, and marchpane (horrid stuff but it was a luxury so he wanted it). The drink he mostly traded on, poured into more discreet bottles, it didn’t do to have your mind clouded here. 

But what was more delicious was the suspicion. 

None of the nobleborn could prove their rivals had done anything, and they certainly couldn’t take it to the faculty, as that would mean breaking the plausible deniability that they had such luxuries to begin with. But they became colder to eachother, their barbs sharper, cooperating less and competing more.

Naturally that meant demand for secrets and intelligence grew, and if he exaggerated a few details, and mixed in some speculation, then well he was just an ignorant orphan boy getting swept up in all the suspicion and scheming, and was always sure to remind people how ignorant he was and that this was all not to be trusted. Soon enough he didn’t even need to, people were making up their own stories, and beginning real schemes in retaliation, or preemptive self defense. 

Vindenca had some kind of spat with her closest friend among the noble girls (he hadn’t even worn their faces). So started to spend more time with him, confided in him more, helped him with his studies more than the minimum amount that would fulfil their agreement.

He relaxed a little around her as well (because this sign of obvious weakness meant she was less of a threat). He didn’t share details of his life, she didn’t care anyway, but he told more jokes, expressed more opinions, and wasn’t shot down for the most part. 

He settled into a comfortable rhythm for his remaining time in the seminary: He waited on Vindenca, she helped him with his studies. He ingratiated himself with the faculty and they gave him tidbits of useful advice. He wasn’t one of the most feared students, but he made contacts at various levels, who knew him to be useful, found others who were useful to him and had a couple he exchanged favors with regularly who weren’t horrendous company. And visited with Joana in the kitchens every week or so. 

But all things in the miserable world of mortals are impermanent, and he needed to prepare for the next stage, his first position as a true Priest of Asmodeus. 

You didn’t choose your placement, and there was no simple relationship between your performance in your studies and what you got. The Church would put you where you would be most useful and that was that.

(And if you believed that, and didn’t have the skill to manipulate it, or the name to be worth a favor, that was your own fault.) 

But towards the end of their time in seminary they would be assessed formally, ranked, and those ranks displayed on lists at the front of the refectory hall for all to see.

He had gathered from the well connected children that, unless you had truly extraordinary connections, you weren’t getting a decent post anywhere if you were at the bottom of those lists.

(And even if you did, your relatives might kill you to save themselves the embarrassment.) 

The true dross were sent out to be village priests in the middle of nowhere, that was the fate he wanted to avoid above all else. Belde’s status as a backwater town had been bad enough, but surround him with miserable peasants and sheep and he might as well walk into the forest and be eaten by monsters. 

(Orgull had never left Belde before coming to the seminary. And all he knew about the country was from books and rumor. But it sounded dreadful.)

It would have been hard to cheat the tests themselves. You couldn’t even cajole and bribe the teachers, as they teleported in priests with no connection to the seminary to perform them. There wouldn’t be time to establish a connection with any of them beforehand, surprisingly even the best connected of the noble brats didn’t have an in with them.  

According to the (very quiet) complaints of the faculty, this system was the direct command of Aspexia Rugatonn She-Who-Is-Elevated-Most-Highly-Amongst-Us-Miserable-Mortals and the examiners reported directly to her third undersecretary. Supposedly to ensure some minimal level of competence among those assigned to important roles (she had apparently tortured to death a few highly recommended, but deeply pathetic, candidates who’d been assigned to her private office, before instituting the system) but more likely to make sure that the patronage networks of the High Priests and Ministers weren’t upset by the petty ones of the teachers at the seminary.

As is Right and Lawful. The will of the Most High is the will of Asmodeus on Golarion, and those she sees fit to elevate are those most worthy. 

The night before their assessments, he went down to the kitchen. The place was even more chaotic than normal, preparing a meal suitable for the esteemed visitors had put the cooks in a frantic mood. So it was easy enough for him to stay out of sight. 

This would be a little harder, Joana wore different clothes of course, and was shorter than him, but he knew her face well. And her mannerisms. How she laughed when he told a joke. How she tied and retied her braid when she was thinking. 

He waited until she’d gone down to the cold rooms in the basement, a trip he’d timed as 3 minutes each way, cast the spell at a whisper.

....and took her place stirring the big pot of stew that would be served to the students.

Amid the brown mass of vegetables and meat (casually tossed in the pot for everyone, it still shocked him slightly) a little more organic matter wouldn’t be noticeable. The salt and spices would be enough to disguise the taste. 

None of the staff paid him much heed, focused on the meals for the important guests. So after stirring the pot well, and putting the ladle back where it had been exactly, he walked back out again. 

He met Vindenca before dinner as normal, and walked with her to the refectory hall.

By unspoken convention  the noble born, or otherwise influential, students took the tables at the front, nearest the High Table where the faculty and their guests ate. (They were having quail tonight, Orgull noted in passing).  

They wanted their status to be as visible as possible to the visitors. So by the time he had carried Vindenca’s bags to her table, fetched her drink, and stood around long enough to be visible, the only spaces remaining for him and the other minions were the farthest end of the hall. 

As always, by the time the stew came to them it was little more than a half bowl of liquid to be mopped up with bread.

It pleases Asmodeus that hierarchy is enforced in all things. And His servants enjoy the fruits of their labors.   

He began dipping his bread, but was distracted by conversation. Everyone was cramming for the next day in low grade panic, and he got caught up in an argument about some inane point of catechism. "Clearly we are supposed to repeat the phrasing Reverend Sergi used, the book is years out of date at this point and...."

He realize with a start that Vindenca had already finished, and was looking over at him expectantly. He visibly jumped, to the amusement of his companions, and ran off to attend her again. 

He’d fantasized, a little, about poisoning them properly. But overly blatant sabotage would force the faculty to investigate, and they might even reschedule the testing.

But no Chosen of Asmodeus would betray their dignity so much as to complain to their superiors about their sleep being disrupted by having to spend the night in the privies. Or say their catechism was poor because, instead of reciting the disciplines, they’d been saying rather more practical prayers as they emptied their guts into their chamberpot. Even if they were so nauseous they could barely stand they would rather die than admit it. 

Vindenca arrived late, as they were closing the doors of the refectory. It was only a frantic whispered mixture of begging, promises, and threats, that allowed her to get in. 

Orgull hadn't bothered to attend on her that morning. Instead he'd woken and said his prayers as normal, broke his fast on food he'd stored in advance and water he created, before reading over his notes a final time. Then, after wetting and only part drying his face and hair, he had gone down to the hall, being one of the first to arrive. 

The head invigilator castigated them for being such a sorry sight, pathetic and unworthy disgraces to Their Lord's name (though from the cadence of it, Orgull thought she probably said something like this to every seminary class).

Reverend Sergi, standing behind her with the other faculty caught Orgull's eye briefly, but his expression was unreadable. 

He'd never been sure how much the teachers knew about what he was doing, he was pretty sure certain he hadn't violated the letter of the rules. Though that was little defence if they took issue. There were no explicit prohibitions against assaulting, humiliating other students, or interfering in their ability to study, he knew that first hand. If the Reverend didn't see it fit to interfere then it was surely the will of Asmodeus. 

The servants would be punished of course, especially the stupid girl responsible for the stew who had somehow messed up something so simple. But that was the way of things. They always had Novices who needed the practice. He didn’t care about servants. He didn’t care about her. That would be weak and pathetic. He wasn’t weak and pathetic, so he didn’t. His mind was entirely focused on the day's testing. 

The tests themselves are gruelling, but straightforward. Among other things:

One of the visiting clerics quizzes each of them individually on their lessons, trying to catch them in heresy or ignorance. Then the same but while speaking infernal the whole time. 

They were tested in casting their cantrips at speed and at targets, while a wizard brought in for the occasion cheerfully tossed acid splashes at them. 

Then they were split into groups of 4 and made to fight 3 dire rats for some reason. 

That evening there was a mood of muted celebration among the novices. They didn't dance on the tables like mad Caydenites, but they relaxed a little more than usual, now many felt the most difficult part had passed. Over dinner (a carefully bland mix of heavily boiled meat and vegetables) they boasted of how well they had done in the tests, and speculated wildly on who would be sent where. 

Their ambitions were all tiresomely predictable. They all wanted the same prestigious posts in Egorian, or an army command, because that was what everyone told them was impressive and high status. Most didn't have a true Asmodean bone in their bodies, they were just playacting what they thought ambition should look like. 

As he nodded politely and zoned out his tired mind drifted to daydreams of Hell, where when they all became devils this kind of silliness would be burned out of them. The Arch Devils didn't aspire to Rule because they felt like they were supposed to, they did it because their nature was like that of Asmodeus, to know what they wanted and take it. And unlike mortal rulers Asmodeus was so strong, and so Lawful, you knew the best and most certain way to get the things you wanted was by serving Him. 

The next morning Orgull was summoned to Reverend Sergi’s office. 

“I’m told that Novice Fernando will live.” He said without preamble.

“Such a hearty appetite on that boy, you’d think it would give him a better constitution. His uncle is furious of course.”

Shit. Well, he wasn't accusing him directly at least. And Orgull could take a prompt when it was given.

“His uncle sir?”

“Oh you didn’t know? He’s the Duke of Belde’s nephew.

The Duke is very upset about it. Not only can he not put him in the post he had planned, the cost of third circle spells from the priesthood at such short notice is considerable. He is looking for someone to blame."

“Yes. I dare to say we’ll have to replace almost all the kitchen staff. Quite costly. A lot of people’s plans have been disrupted.”

He flicked through some papers absently, bringing up a list of names.

“Your friend Vindenca barely escaped the bottom quarter of the list, despite the benefits of her birth and her impressive class performance. So the post she had been angling for in Egorian will have to go to someone else. A pity. She had asked for you to be given a post alongside her as well, if a more junior role.”

what. why had she. she didn't

This was not important. 

"Reverend, I didn't...."

"Silence. 

I did not give you leave to speak boy. Break your smallest finger on your right hand."

He wasn't going to cry out or flinch if he could help it. If anything this was probably a good sign right, Reverend Sergi wouldn't be making it into a lesson unless he might survive this. Unless he just thinks its funny.  

He had broken the fingers of slips in his practical classes a dozen times, and taken and given such injuries a thousand times as a child. It was really not that big a deal. It would be unbearably pathetic to die because he let a little pain get in the way of keeping himself alive. And in hell there would be even more pain if he hadn't shown his value before getting there. 

He followed orders. 

_{It really did hurt quite a lot though}

When he was finished Sergi continued:

"We spoke before on the nature of power. You were right that it does not serve Asmodeus to have weak servants. But neither does it serve him to have his property recklessly damaged."

"You are lucky that the Duke of Belde has many enemies, as do others in your cohort, so suspicion does not go to you immediately. And there are those within the church who are of the opinion that it does our highborn recruits good to be humbled occasionally, the resentment it breeds tends to make them work harder, and they appreciate better what they are given when they see it can all be taken away." 

"Suffering leads to learning, and we have no use for those who cannot learn. Can you learn boy?" 

What else could he say? Sergi did love to be didactic, a small part of him that wasn't entirely consumed by pain and terror thought.

"Yes sir."

The Reverend gestured at the side door, which Orgull knew opened into a small torture chamber. 

He walked there of his own will, opened the door. His hands did not shake, they did not shake, he was in control. If he walked towards this himself then it was choosing it, so it was the dignified decision of a Chosen of Asmodeus, not the actions of a scared child. 

The chamber was laid out to the standard pattern he could have drawn from memory. Though the equipment was of finer quality than what the students got to work with, some effort had been made to clean the flagstones (though flecks of blood and char were visible in the cracks). A comfortable leather wingback armchair, matching those in the Reverend’s private rooms, and a small bookcase, added a homey touch.

A wizard he didn't recognize was sat on a much less comfortable chair by the brazier, looking bored. 

He took off his robes and hung them by the door. His skin pimpled in the cold. 

Sergi looked at him with clinical detachment.

"Your holy symbol as well"

That was somehow worse.

He stood there, skin pimpling from the cold.

He wasn't cold for long.

Orgull had been a competent enough student, but he had never quite appreciated the gap with what a senior Chosen could do.

He felt oddly detached. Like he was watching a demonstration in class. Surely he was on the other side of the room, behind Sergi watching him work, noting the technique, not in front of him. There was some confusion he needed to snap out of, some mistake or trick of perspective. 

“What did you do wrong?”

“I damaged property that properly belongs to Asmodeus, sir.”

“Repeating back what you are told may have been enough at school boy, but you are a Chosen now.

Explain what you did wrong.

Demonstrate your understanding”

There was more pain.

Orgull had always secretly feared pain. He knew that was a weak and pathetic thing but he did. He didn’t know if he was strong enough to endure.

But Asmodeus had Chosen him. Asmodeus wouldn’t have Chosen him if he was a weakling destined to die here. Asmodeus wouldn't have granted him the Domain of Trickery if it could only lead to death.

Asmodeus must have known this would happen, and allowed it, so that he might learn. So he could demonstrate what he was worth. 

As the flames died down the pain did as well. A little.

He breathed in and out. Regaining his composure. He focused on the feeling of being Chosen, the feeling of connection and recognition.

“My error was that I transgressed the hierarchy of the Church. The discipline of novices is the prerogative of their teachers. Even if my classmates needed to be humbled, that was not my task, or my right.

I... I thought I knew better than the Church.”

Reverend Sergi had moved at some point, and now was standing next to him. Orgull had fallen to his knees and Sergi had his hand on his shoulder steadying him. Despite the burns underneath the hand felt cool.

“That you did. What else?

Think boy. You are not just a novice now. If you leave my office today it will be as a full acolyte. You need to see the bigger picture. 

Breathe in and out, then tell me.”

So there was a chance he could leave here alive. He’d dared to hope.

Of course there was, this was all Asmodeus’s plan.

That cool hand wasn’t quite the touch of Asmodeus but it did help.

What else. What else. 

Oh. Shit.

“I didn’t think of the consequences of my actions beyond the domain of petty student competition. I didn’t think about how it would disrupt the plans of my betters, and the consequences of that. And….”

Thinking about Sergi’s expression standing behind the younger priest in finer robes who had been sent by the Church in Egorian.

“I… embarrassed you didn’t I. You and the rest of the faculty. Having your students perform badly in front of the examiners reflects badly on you.” 

“And, its not just about us here at the seminary even. The Most High commanded these tests, sent the examiners by teleport at great expense.”

A gaping hole in the bottom of his stomach now.

“She cares about having accurate results. Because her plans for the priesthood need that information for some reason.

Eiseth’s tits, have I annoyed the Most High even?”

Sergi actually laughed at that.

“Not quite. She doesn’t pay us that much personal attention. This will be a footnote to a footnote of a report her secretary will summarize for her.

You are far from the first student to sabotage their classmates. Though your methods were certainly….” a small smile “…splashier than most.”

Orgull chuckled weakly. That seemed to be expected.

“Most novices will limit themselves to a few personal rivals, scorpions in the bed, knives in the dark and such. Youthful hijinks are tolerated provided they keep it reasonably discrete.

Few would have realized that making your move bigger and flashier would, paradoxically, make it harder to tie to any particular perpetrator or target, what with all the different little schemes your classmates were up to. Sometimes it’s best to burn down the whole town so no-one realizes you were just aiming for the temple.

Even I wouldn’t have been certain it was you if we hadn’t been monitoring the kitchens.”

A sigh.

“Your. Focus. Remains. Too. Narrow.” He squeezed Orgull’s shoulder with each word, the burnt skin cracking under the pressure.

 “We had the most important visitors of the year dining with us my boy. The Chief Examiner is a fifth-circle with many rivals in Egorian who would dearly love to poison her. Of course we were monitoring the kitchens.

You are fortunate that the meals were separate enough it was clear you weren’t aiming for her, or you’d have died on the spot.”

“You are wondering I suppose why we didn’t stop you then?”

_{He’d mostly been focused on the pain in his body and the gaping pit of horror in his stomach.}

“Deacon Ramona has been an ongoing embarrassment to this seminary. But even pissed up to her eyeballs she was too dangerous for anyone to challenge directly.

Her graduating class failing so spectacularly in front of our visitors was enough to make her rethink how she can best serve our Lord and volunteer for a new assignment. No doubt she will find the northern air sobering. 

This does you no credit.
You did not anticipate this.
You weren’t knowingly serving me.
You weren’t plotting some clever scheme. 
You were just a child lashing out from peasant resentment.

By sheer luck you did so in a way that turned out to be useful. But, you weren’t thinking of the interests of the Church, or those of Asmodeus."

“You scored well as it happens. Even with normal competition you would have been well above average. Though your marks on Discipline, Applied Tyranny and Church Organizational Doctrine leave a little to be desired.  

A supplemental question: Imagine you have the great fortune to survive today, and, after years of diligent service become a Deacon yourself. How would you deal with a subordinate who, while showing some small talent, has problems with subordination?”

The reprimand hurts. But not as much as the actual torture. 

_{That still really really hurts. 
The pain makes it hard to think of anything else.
He's going to die and Asmodeus is going to reject him and he'll never get to be a devil
and he'll be weak and pathetic
and he'll never be safe and....}

Focus. 

"I would, first of all, punish him sufficiently that he knew in his soul he had done wrong. But I think we can take that as read" he said gesturing with his face at the state of the rest of him. 

Give a slight twinge of irony in the voice there. We're sharing a little joke between us. I'm not just a victim here. I'm like you.

But not so much as to seem insubordinate. I recognize your mastery here. Your skill in torture. And your right to do it.  

"Then, if I considered him worth the effort of course, I'd appoint him to a position where he was not alone to behave as he wished..." as in an isolated village or commanding in the... no, too much, "but under the supervision of superior priests who could correct his errors."

Should he suggest something? An intelligence role where he could use his trickery to good effect? He'd like that. That sounded ideal. So it must be the wrong answer. 

Stop trying to answer the actual question. 

"But beyond that I could not say. I cannot simply pretend I am a Deacon sir, because I am not, I could no more play at being a Devil and expect myself to know the true wisdom of hell. I lack the wit, the wisdom, or the experience."

Sergi’s lip quirked in a way that you might interpret as a ghost of an affectionate smile, if you were deeply pathetic.

“Clever boy. You are beginning to understand at last that your superiors are placed above you for a reason, that they are better than you.” 

Sergi let him go, and tossed him a small bottle with droplets of burning red in it. Devil’s blood.

“You are authorized to heal yourself. But not until morning. You will be confined to your quarters for the next few days, while the coaches take most of the students off to their new roles. Your classmates may draw their own conclusions.

It is one of the great joys of teaching to see one’s students develop and follow their future careers. I do hope you keep in touch once you are sent off to your new assignment.”

Ah, blackmail and bribery, this was familiar enough.

“Thank you sir.” He said, and meant it.

He loved Ostenso and he loved being a priest.

Belde was a city on paper, but a backwater inland one, barely worth a dot on the map and a line in an almanac. Ostenso was a true City of the Infernal Empire and it was beautiful. The scripture’s descriptions of the gleaming towers of Dis had never really grabbed Orgull. But seeing Ostenso he was beginning to think he understood a small part of the Glory of Hell. 

The Ostenso Cathedral, where he got to work, was visible across the city. The main chamber where services were held could have fit his childhood orphanage with room to spare, below the high ceiling that must have needed significant magic to keep up unsupported. (He later learned that the vaulted ceiling dated from when it had been an Arodenite temple, but that only made it more glorious in a way, the spoils of his Lord’s slaying of the upstart Aroden.) 

The corridors and offices that made up the rest of it were no less grand for their smaller scale. The work that he and the other new first circle priests were assigned to begin with wasn’t particularly stimulating, cast this spell here, glare appropriately sternly at the staff here to keep them in line, torture a few as an example. He found himself oddly averse to using fire, so came up with creative alternatives. But whatever task he was about, just being able to walk down the marble corridors, past painted frescos and bowing guards made him feel right.

His fellow first circle adepts were from other seminaries closer to Ostenso, he had been sent to the other side of Cheliax, and whatever Sergi’s reasons he was glad of it. None of them knew him as a backwater peasant boy, and the slight lilt to his Standard Taldane that remained of his former accent, marked him as exotic, not contemptible, and could be easily mistaken for Westcrown or Egorian by those not well informed.

He went out with them socially on many occasions, drinking and dining at taverns and restaurants with elaborate menus, their stipend was not hugely generous, but of course the privilege being patronized by Chosen was payment enough for many.

Most weeks they attended the Opera alongside their superiors. Though he’d picked up enough of the basics from Vindenca (who had been obsessed with it) to bluff an intelligent enough conversation he didn’t really understand the appeal, except for the rare occasions they livened it up with an unsimulated death. He supposed there was some praise to Asmodeus in the trickery involved, but nobody was truly taken in by it, so what was the point? But it was a privilege that was denied to most people, so he enjoyed it for that, and watched the nobles in the crowd in the boring parts.

Just wandering the City was entertainment in itself. The Cathedral was, of course, the most glorious of the buildings, but the rest did their best to compete. From the Cathedral you could walk through the Noble districts with their spiked mansions, past the Academy District with shops selling magical items and harried packs of students, and look down on the warren of alleys leading to the docks. Where the masts of the ships in the navy yard stretched out like an army of devils with banners held high. In 5 minutes walking the streets he would see a greater number and variety of people than he had seen in his entire life before being Chosen. At first, he was unsettled by the attention he was given, but then he realized it was just the deference he was due, as even a first circle priest, the crowds parted before him like fish before a shark.

On the occasions he didn’t want the attention he would change into the clothes of a minor merchant, changing his face when he walked through the districts he might be recognized, and wandered the dockside and slums. There was something thrilling in wandering past the kind of petty gangs who would have tormented him as a child, knowing he was utterly safe, and that were they to accost him any that survived his channels and spells would be struck down by fear of the consequences of hurting a Chosen. 

He found the entertainments of the lower classes more appealing. He watched an Owlbear disembowel a dozen captured drow on his first night at the fighting pits, and was hooked. (The ringmaster said they were elite agents sent to infiltrate Cheliax, and caught by the heroic efforts of the Queens Security, but they looked more like confused half blind commoners to him). So attended with regularity and enthusiasm otherwise reserved only for the Bishop’s sermons. 

He endeared himself to one of the more senior priests, not the most important or powerful, they had a dozen supplicants, but a plump looking 3^rd Circle who, while lower in rank, seemed to have much nicer jewelry than the others, who he learned controlled the Port Inspectorate.

What did the church have to do with ports and trade? Naturally there was a Crown body with the remit to take fees, inspect for contraband, etc. But it was important that the Church made their own inspections for heretical material, and any other things they judged to be deleterious to the spiritual development of the population. And if this lead to some infighting and duplication of work, that was pleasing to Asmodeus afterall.

Orgull impressed his prospective superior with his willingness to do, in effect, all of the day to day work of running the office, and inspecting the ships, while still passing on the dragons share of the profits. Leaving the Senior Presbyter able to sleep in until noon before making an appearance, and spending more time with his collection of exotic artifacts confiscated from ships or gifted by pious ship’s captains.

Orgull was convinced half of them were fake, the kind of thing that Osirians sold to credulous tourists claiming they were from the tomb of the Arch-Mega-Pharoah Impressificus XIV. But kept up the appearance of fascinated interest on the frequent occasions when, after attempting to deliver a brief report, he was forced to listen to long rambling stories about their origins or his time as a combat cleric. With a perfunctory explanation of how this of course demonstrated the glory of Asmodeus in the world, blah blah blah. (Perhaps this was a particularly advanced form of torture the Senior Presbyter employed for when he got bored of setting the clerks on fire for wearing unlucky colors, or signing their documents in an insubordinate manner.)  

The role was perhaps not the most prestigious, but it was certainly lucrative. On top of the normal speed money from merchants wanting their papers stamped within a week or impoundments lifted, his inspections for heretical material gave him the right to confiscate items at his discretion. An explanation for why a silver inkwell might pose to the moral fiber of Cheliax was not required by the law. And he was a Lawful follower of Asmodeus.

It was rare to find anything truly heretical. A few books that hadn’t been updated for the most recent round of censorship, hidden idols to various unapproved Gods, etc. The dream was to find a copy of the Acts of Iomedae, or books of another Good god, but despite being pathetic it seemed their worshippers weren’t quite that stupid. Once, when flicking through a book of turgid Abadarian lectures that he’d confiscated mostly out of spite, he did find what appeared to be Norgorberite Scripture (would a God of sneaking thieves even have such a thing? He’d never thought about it). Though by then the ship had left so he didn’t bother reporting it. 

For Chelish captains, and a few foreigners who seemed less contemptible than the rest, he would suggest they meet at lunch to talk through their paperwork before the ship inspection. They would of course insist on taking him somewhere nice, and if after a pleasant meal, a few drinks, and the occasional friendly gift he was too tired to bother with visiting the ship himself he would naturally trust them at their word there was nothing to be seen.

A couple of them he got to know well enough he’d meet with them even when they didn’t have paperwork to expedite. And would be sure to take seriously their reports of rivals who were suspected heretics, and be sure to inspect those ships more rigorously.

(This was Cheliax, the pretenses were not in fact strictly necessary, but he found he enjoyed them).  

He sent regular letters back to Sergi, of course. With reports on what was happening, gossip that he might value, occasional requests for advice, and gifts to show his ongoing gratitude. He wasn’t clear on the nature of their relationship, whether they were patron and supplicant, or extorter and extorted, but it matted little.

He asked after Vindenca one time, it was important to keep an eye on rivals who might still hold a grudge. Apparently she’d been shipped off to the Wound to corral soldiers. So would be little threat for the time being.

A year in, after reaching second circle (a fast but not exceptional time), he began to hint and fish that he was ready for whatever greater purpose Sergi had preserved him for. But Sergi didn’t respond. Which was sensible enough, letters could be read and intercepted, even through Church internal mail. Especially Church internal mail, depending on the enemies. 

He was content to wait for the time being. Orgull was in his proper place at last. Asmodeus was in His Hell. All was right in the world. 

Then the Galtans came.

In theory as the heart of the Chelish Navy, host to a wizarding academy with close ties to the military, and much of the provincial troops, the city should be well prepared. But they’d become lax with drills in recent years.

It disrupts the normal work of the port, that costs money you know. What, are you saying Her Majesty’s forces are weak? That some force of traitors or heretics could threaten the infernal empire?

Most of their preparations had been on the, reasonable, assumption, that attacks would come by sea and target the shipyards. So, when reports came in of a Galtan army being sighted inland, the initial response was limited to mocking, abusing, or (in the case of the Academy Chancellor) immolating, the messenger. 

But once it was established that the messengers were neither stupid, drunk, or part of a rivals scheme (one so obvious it has to be an elaborate insult, its Manohar isn't it, fucking Manohar) orders began to fly, by messenger, Message, trained familiar, and ringing bells. 

Commandant Admiral Rania Laroung took command of the city’s forces, obviously. It doesn’t matter if the enemy is coming from land, she was still the senior military officer in the city. They had plans for a defense with her in command, so she was in command.

She directs her forces from the Ironquay War Academy, the best possible choice: heavily fortified, filled with the best military minds in Cheliax, who’d wargamed even this scenario and in possession of the map table and figurines necessary for proper military command.

From there she directed Harbormaster Cothos to assemble the dockwatchers and prevent the inevitable fire attacks on the ships; Deployed marines and city guard to the pre-planned chokepoints across the city; And sent word to the Academy and Cathedral politely reminding them of their parts in the city defense plans.

Lord-Mayor Idressia Henderthane took command of the city’s forces, obviously. As the senior representative of the Crown in Ostenso and daughter of the Archduke Henderthane she naturally had the authority to do so in his absence. And it was her personal troops on the walls already who’d be repelling the first wave of conventional attackers.

She ordered all troops, dockwatchers, clerics, wizards, and every able-bodied man to reinforce them at the walls and central keep immediately. 

Prelate Athrid Darubec took command of the city’s forces, obviously. As the senior representative of the Church in Ostenso he was the voice of Asmodeus in the city, and as a Prelate he was beholden only to the Archduke (in his own estimation at least).

He ordered all forces to rally at the Cathedral and prepare for a counterattack on the Galtan forces before they reached the city. 

The Chancellor of the Ostenso Royal Academy of Magic, the Para-Countess Asmodia de Senaria doesn't give a fuck about the city, obviously. 

She ordered all wizards, apprentices and porters to assemble in the heavily warded Great Hall, it's the most defensible place in the city. And any sensible enemy would begin with magical hit squads teleported in to strategic locations to start fires. Burnt ships can be rebuilt, and the city repopulated, but the Academy’s books are irreplaceable. 

By the grace of Asmodeus Orgull and his superior were both in their office by the port when the first confused reports and messages came in.

“Boy come here!” the Senior Presbyter bellowed from his chambers.

Orgull was greeted by the darkly comic image of the man in his undershirt trying to stubbornly to fit himself into a breastplate intended for a much younger and thinner man.

“There’s a false bottom in the bottom right drawer of my desk...”

I know that. Even the tea slip probably knows that.

But he obediently began emptying out the drawer.

“There’s potions and rings in there,  take one of each for each of us, and give any spares to the combat wizard, along with the scrolls.”

Their "combat wizard" was barely above laundry standard. His superior had been pocketing the wage difference since before Orgull’s time. 

Possibly the Galtans intended to disrupt their communications with carefully spilled ink, or smuggle Andoran brandy under an illusioned hull to incapacitate the soldiers

“Grab the Azlanti funerary urn on the top shelf, there’s an enchanted dagger in there.”

Okay Orgull didn’t actually know that part.

Shit, which one was meant to be Azlanti?

The ugly grey one probably.

The older priest continued ranting while he struggled with the straps on the armor.

“Seems the Galtans got bored of waiting for those lazy bastards in the Admiralty to come tidy them up, what! So they’ve come here to get their kickings from us in person. Splendid!”

“I’ve told you before boy. Cyprian may have polished them up and taught them to walk in straight lines, but the Galtan can’t stand the taste of good Chelish steel! Mark my words boy, we’ll march out to them on the field and they’ll scatter, just like when we put down their stupid rebellion.”

After a brief moment of frustration shaking the urn Orgull dropped it on the floor, and fished out the dagger from the shards of pottery. 

“The reports say there’s quite a few of them sir. Perhaps we should rally to a more defensible position?”

“Ha! Maybe they’ll put up a proper fight this time. Don't worry boy. Any men you kill will be your first slaves once you're a devil. We'll take a few hundred with us and be toasts of Mammon’s court tonight!”

Holding the dagger in his hand, and looking at the back of the man as he scrabbled to do his armor straps, Orgull made a calculation. 

If we fight today we are all going to die.

I don’t want to die.

Because Asmodeus doesn’t want me to die. He put me here to serve Him. He has untold devils in Hell and I’ll reach him soon enough.

This man is going to get us all killed. Which would waste Asmodeus’ property carelessly.

This man is an enemy of Asmodeus. 

“Sir, let me help you with that.”

He stepped up behind the older man. 

“Looks like the chain on your Symbol is caught in clasp of the gorget, here see... 

Okay, I think I've got it, lift up your chin for a moment”

Higher circle Priests are harder to kill, like priests and nobles are stronger than commoners. The Church teaches this is a blessing of Asmodeus, illustrating the Divine Order. Its also a large part of what keeps the Church hierarchy at all stable.

But it turns out that if you have their items, their holy symbol, a knife to the neck, a moment of surprise, and the blessing of Asmodeus you can overcome such barriers.

So, right. Now what.

The Galtans are not stupid. They would not attack a heavily defended city if they had any expectation that they would lose.

And appearing out of nowhere inland of Ostenso implied some great miracle in their support from whatever gods it was they worshipped there. (Milani maybe? She had something to do with rebellions and anarchy right.)

Asmodeus was of course stronger, and could repay them thousandfold, but unlike other Gods he did not waste His resources frivolously because he had actually competent subordinates on the material, who knew not to waste His resources. So they would be expected to look after themselves for the time being. And it was Orgull's duty to stay alive so he could continue to serve His Lord on Golarion. 

The staff would be a liability more than a help in a city being sacked. So he should get rid of them first.

The Senior Presbyter had been the kind of relatively lax superior who acquired some distant affection from his staff but little actual loyalty. Under other circumstances they’d be upset at the loss of relatively cushy opportunities for self-enrichment, but right now they had other concerns, and would respond to a firm hand.

He called in the “Combat Wizard” and looked her levelly in the eye while passing over a small selection of scrolls and the spare ring of protection.

“The Senior Presbyter unfortunately took leave of his senses in the excitement. And as such was relieved of command in accordance with commands from above.”

“I would appreciate it if you could prestidigitate the blood off of my robes before I address the rest of the staff.” 

He told them that he was in touch with the wider Church hierarchy, and the Queen and her army were expected to retake the city within the week.

Their orders were to scatter and hide, so be ready to assist when the time came, and in the meantime, note the names of collaborators.

He ended with a pious invocation that their lives were property of Asmodeus and the Queen, and they should not waste them frivolously, however strong the temptation to punish the heretical invaders.

Whether they believed him or not, they needed little encouragement to leave. He handed out some of the remaining potions to the wizard and other senior staff, for verisimilitude (half had probably been replaced with water by enterprising predecessors anyway).

Then he was alone in the office.

His rooms were near the Cathedral. He had secreted food and small valuables there, along with his non-priestly clothes, just in case.

He remembered how excited he had been to have rooms, rooms plural, all to himself. A whole room just to sleep in, with a soft feather bed. A tastefully decorated room for entertaining. And a slip to keep it all clean.

His gut twisted at the idea of his possessions all going up in flames, or being stolen by some Galtan, or his slip, but going there would be foolish. He’d have to make do. 

He methodically looted the Senior Presbyter’s body and the rest of his office, smashing any other antiquities that looked like they could fit things in them, but no luck. His robes would look comically large on Orgull, so using them to pass as a higher grade of priest wouldn’t work. But his jewelry was light and portable, and would give the impression of wealth and seniority.

The man’s enchanted mace and shield were still hung on the wall. He hadn’t practiced with them since Seminary, and they were heavy as fuck, so he’d leave them. He had the dagger, rings, and most of the potions, that would be enough.

He took anything else that looked valuable and would be easily carried (thank Mammon for paper money, otherwise he’d be weighted down) and left.  

Fleeing inland would be obviously stupid, so he might as well head to the docks.

He briefly considered finding the ship of one of his friends the captains he had had a productive relationship with. But they’d as likely sell him out as anything 

But the Custodisce Break, the great pillars of stone the first Thrune Queen had raised from the sea to form Ostenso’s natural harbor, supported a vast warren of docks, warehouses and slums. They had accreted like barnacles atop each other, hanging above and below the vast metal braces between the pillars, stretching a half mile into the sea. He’d be able to hide there.

The street outside the office was deserted. The normal dockworkers, merchants and layabouts either pressganged into the defense or fled.

Heading downhill to the sea he sighted a barricade blocking off the end of the street, and slowed to a sedate walk to approach it.

“Halt! None may pass through by order of Harbormaster Cothos!

_{Oh fuck it’s a fucking priest.}

Chosen. I…”

He kept walking towards them without breaking stride.

“Silence. You were doing your duty, that is commendable enough. Now let me through.”

“I’m sorry Chosen. Our orders are to let no one through” said the same man, now revealed to be wearing the insignia of a dockwatcher sergeant, and a facial expression indicating he was regretting his career choices.

He raised one eyebrow calmly. “And do you think your orders apply to the Chosen of Your Lord?”

He waved the man away irritably and began to walk along the row of soldiers manning the barricade.

Solemnly chanting in infernal he placed one hand on the shoulder of each soldier in turn, while tracing a pentagram with the other hand.

“I eat. You are eating. Asmodeus. They is eating. I have ate. Asmodeus...."

The men stiffened slightly at his touch, but did nothing. After completing the front line he continued to the one behind them, the soldiers politely stepping aside to let him through. 

"I am eaten. Asmodeus. We alls eatings. Asmodeus. You have been eaten. Hell. They have been being eaten....” 

Upon reaching the back, he took a half step up on a discarded crate and proclaimed:

“Blessings of Asmodeus on you this day soldiers of Cheliax. I know you will serve our Lord well and keep your families safe this day.”

For some reason they stood straighter and prouder at that.

He moved on.

Orgull headed towards the Break, keeping to alleyways that ran roughly parallel to the shoreline, not trusting the portside to be safe under the circumstances. 

By one mechanism or another the message had gotten out to the common people that the Galtans were coming. He passed boarded up shops and hastily abandoned market stalls. A woman’s face, showing signs of hastily applied dirt, was briefly visible in a window before disappearing again. 

At first the city was silent, save for the occasional distant bass rumble. Mostly these came from inland where, hopefully, the bulk of the Galtans were still fighting. But increasingly he heard them from all directions, and distant shouts grew in volume and frequency. He routed around the sources of the noise as best he could.

Eventually he reached the end of the docks, where a relatively narrow pier extended out and connected them to the Break proper.

A broad open avenue of wooden slats held up by support poles in the shallow part of the sea. Until they joined with the mess of similar platforms hanging off the sides of the stone pillars. It was in retrospect an obvious chokepoint. 

From the scorch marks and bodies strewn around, it had already come under attack by Galtan strike teams teleporting in. But it still remained under Asmodean control.

These weren’t the scared and disorganized conscripts he saw earlier. They looked to be the best of the Dockwatchers, experienced fighters and veterans in their own right, alongside units of heavily drilled marines, and would likely have their own wizardly and clerical support. 

If he tried to bluff his way past them he’d, at best, be conscripted to help with the defense, and might be recognized and required to answer some awkward questions. 

He had Disguise Self and Invisibility, naturally. With the former he’d still need to explain his presence, even if not being a priest made him less conspicuous. And the latter only lasted a few minutes. 

The soldiers had constructed a solid looking barricade on the seaward side (unlike everyone else they’d drilled for this), taking planks from the boardwalk to build it, leaving irregularly spaced gaps to trip up charging enemies. 

Right now they were busying themselves with making more holes and clearing away any debris that could be used as cover, creating a clear killing ground for the arrows and spells from the barricade. As they went they checked which of the bodies were irretrievably maimed or dead, who could be tossed off the edge into the sea, or those who could be put back to work with a little healing. 

Orgull was crouching on the far landward side, out of sight, at the edge of where it seemed the fight had happened.

There he found the body of a soldier leaned up against a dock building, by happenstance at such an angle that he was hidden from the barricade. 

Despite the burns covering one side of him the man began to stir when Orgull poked at them. The smell of the burnt flesh made him think of the seminary, his hands were shaking for some reason.  

The man’s eyes focused on Orgull’s holy symbol. “Chosen….? oh thank Asmodeus…. praise… praise… be to Asmodeus…

Please Chosen… please… heal me…. I… I can pay… my family…”

“I’m sorry my child. But your wounds are too severe.”

Orgull didn’t actually know if that was the case, he’d not particularly studied healing. He had two Cures prepared, it was always worth having in case of emergencies, but he was saving them for something important. 

“Worry not. You served your God and your Queen well today. You will be honored in Hell. Made stronger, faster, tougher to join the armies of Moloch, conquering worlds on Lord Asmodeus’s behalf.

Tell me your name and unit, and I’ll be sure your comrades know of your sacrifice. And your family looked after.”

The man’s face contorted. In perhaps anger, or skepticism, but after a moment it loosened again, his eyes unfocusing.

Orgull squeezed the mans burned shoulder tightly. “Your name soldier”.

“Arnau sir… Arnau de.... de Alvis. With the Ostenso division, detachment aboard Mardehzuk’s Claw… Sir I….” 

“Any passphrases or similar? So they know I really spoke to you”

“Pass phrase…. pass phrase is “Moloch” sir… sir I’m….”

Of course it was.

Orgull hadn’t prepared Bleed that day, so he cut the man’s throat. It was messy, but the blood would add to the verisimilitude.

Once the body had stopped moving, he removed the clothes. He’d had to dress and undress children at the orphanage, but hadn’t appreciated how much more difficult it was with someone heavier than you, and who wasn’t helping even the minimal amount they did.

His robes would be too bulky to carry unobtrusively, so he wrapped the man in them like a funeral shroud. Maybe when they retook the city he’d get a proper burial as a consequence.

Wearing the man’s clothes (bloodied leather and chainmail) would make the Disguise easier. It would be difficult to copy the man’s face exactly, given the burns, but he applied blood to that side of his face liberally, and tried to hold the pattern of cracked flesh in his mind when he cast the spell.

“Disguise Self”

Orgull found a broken spear haft to use like a crutch, and staggered his way towards the barricade.

Internally part of him was screaming about the waste of time, while he faked a slow erratic walk towards the barricade, avoiding the holes they’d cut in the platform, the time on his spell was ticking slowly downwards.

The men clearing the area before the barricade glanced up at him as he approached, but didn’t say anything until he was right next to them. 

“Arnau is that you?”

“Of course it is. You fucking turds thought you could leave me behind did you?”

The man laughed.

“We figured you were soft enough you'd be queuing up in Avernus before that first fireball finished. Guess your lazy arse was just taking the chance to get out of some honest work”

He slapped Orgull on the back, pretty hard.

Orgull did his best imitation of a man who’d been slapped on fresh burns

“FUCK. FUCK!

Fuck you and your whore of a mother with Dispater’s horns. You lazy whoresons wouldn't know an honest days work if it bit you in the arse. Now help me up to the barricade you shits.”

“Get there yourself.” He said gesturing towards it. “We’ve got work to do before the heretics turn up again.

There’s a sawbones and a cleric at the back on the left. Get yourself patched up and you might be some use to us. 

Oh and the passphrase is Moloch again.”

With more elaborate blasphemies Orgull limped his way into the barricade, where, after telling them “I’m Arnau, detached to Mardehzuk’s Claw, and the pass phrase is fucking Moloch again. Now fucking show me to the sawbones.” he was shoved towards a half open tent, next to another closed one, where the walking sitting and sprawling wounded were waiting. 

He remained standing and, after a couple moments visibly looking at the other men, asked “How long have you been waiting then?” at their unamused expressions he said “Fuck this I’m going for a piss. Nobody's to take my place in line understand.” and limped off. 

Now he was through, he could see that as well as that large barricade to the North, there was another, smaller one, blocking the westward path out to the Custodisce Break proper, with maybe a hundred soldiers milling around behind it. Walking out while visibly wounded probably wouldn't end particularly well either. 

He found an unobserved corner among the remains of the food stall that normally served the workers passing through here.

“Invisibility” he whispered. 

He dropped the spear, and tore off the chainmail, for the weight and noise, and made his way, fast as he could, to the gate of the western barricade. 

He’d practiced before, amusing himself by rearranging the staff’s work in the office, and once or twice moving through crowds. But the tightly packed crowds of soldiers behind the barricade were more difficult. He waited an entire agonizing minute stuck between two soldiers, with no gap he could slide through without touching them. Before one turned slightly and he managed to squeeze past them. Reaching the gate and following out after a group of soldiers. 

Once he was through the docks were stretched out to sea before him, and afraid his spell would run out at any moment, he legged it. 

Orgull had never really explored the Custodisce Break. It had presumably been impressive when Abrogail Thrune the First raised the pillars from the sea, was gifted archdevil sized spears from the forges of Phlegethon, and drove them into the stone as the foundation of her imperial shipyards. 

(Orgull knew the former Arodenite cathedral must predate the Chelish civil war, and there would be no reason to build an impressive temple, or even city, here without the unreasonably good harbor. Making the timeline questionable. But he had never cared to think on it much.)

Now it was a haven for the truly desperate, those with no homes who feared the consequences of sleeping on cleaner streets, criminals of the efficient sort. Not the kind of tame roughness the neighborhoods around the fighting rings had to give a thrill to merchants, aristocrats, Chosen, respectable folks like himself. 

The walk along the piers was interesting, if you were entranced by the sparring and spelling of new galleys (he wasn’t), or the migration of gold from captain to sailor, to bar and brothel, then back to captain, all within a stone’s throw. (Abadarians might wet themselves, but he preferred the Mammonite simplicity of “Captain to Chosen”.)

But beyond that it was a repetitive maze of old rotting warehouses, turned slums and barracks, stacked on top of one another haphazardly. People had driven iron spikes, now mostly rust, into the pillar to extend it upward, reaching as high as the cathedral. Lacking planning or maintenance it became a vast edifice of half rotten wood, connected together erratically with sloped platforms or ladders.

Amid the mess of scarred wood he noticed repeating marks that seemed more deliberate. Thief signs?  After nearly plummeting through rotten floors into the waves, twice, he determined what two vertical lines and a cross meant. Another recurring sign, something like a star made with the tip of a knife, seemed to point to safer paths, and lacking a better idea, he followed them.  

Eventually, as dusk was falling, he wiggled through a gap in the roof of a warehouse, into a surprisingly dry attic. It looked like it had been inhabited, the floor cleared of dust and debris, the ashes and burn marks from an old fire, and hole that was evidently used as a latrine. But not recently he guessed, there was dust on the floor, and the smell of the latrine was thankfully muted.

There looked to be more thief marks on the wall, but it was too dark to see them clearly, and he didn’t really care to. He barricaded up the gap in the ceiling as much as he could, using the hilt of the Presbyter’s enchanted dagger to hammer some rusted nails into place. It wouldn’t hold, but it should at least cause some noise when someone else broke in.  

Then he sat in the farthest corner, knees up against his face, dagger in one hand. He heard distant screaming, and smelt fire on the wind. He shook, probably from the cold.  

He wasn’t sure if he slept, the night an endless moment of listening in the dark. But eventually he felt dawn come and, as he had done every day since his Choosing, kneeled and opened his mind.

He’d been told as a child that when you prayed Asmodius saw every part of you, seeing into your true motives deeper than any wizard could. At the seminary he’d been taught to rehearshe e the events of the previous day, the decisions he’d made, and if they had been correct. So that he might judge himself as Asmodius judged him, and try to be a little less pathetic. Before making his plans and requesting his spells for the day ahead.

He thought of the body of the Senior Presbyter on the ground, the expression in his face as he fell, not angry, but surprised? Confused? Betrayed?

I know he was Yours. And it’s a sin to damage what is Yours. A sin to violate the hierarchy as well. But he was a fool, he would have wasted both our lives, and many others besides. Surely it serves you better to be smart? To know my value and preserve it. To wait for the perfect time to strike, like you slew Aroden in His moment of weakness, I will fall upon the Galtans when they least expect it. If that be your will. 

He thought about the soldiers, the one he’d killed, but also the others. Bravely preparing to fight, while he had snuck away.

I couldn’t have stopped them, I couldn’t have saved them. Even if I’d told them the best way to serve you was to live, they wouldn’t have believed me. They were good Asmodeans and obeyed their orders to the last.

You didn’t pray for others to have mercy in Hell. That would be besides the point, and no favor to them besides, to wish them to be weaker. You might pray instead that a particularly pathetic enemy was turned into a paving stone, or destroyed, rather than getting to become a devil like you. But in the end it was up to Asmodeus what use he made of his possessions.

I commend to you the soldier Arnau, and his comrades. Who by their sacrifice helped me survive so I might serve you later. They will make strong and crafty devils. Let them be the vanguard in Your conquests, and feast on the blood of Angels, if it pleases you. Let their deaths be avenged swiftly when Her Infernal Majesty's wrath falls upon the Galtans. 

For now I think I can best serve you by trickery not by violence, until I know the lay of the land, where best to strike the enemy, and when the Queen’s vengeance will come. Grant me those spells I need to do so. I humbly request Invisibility, I humbly request Disguise Self, I humbly request…. 

Little is known by mortals of how Gods relate to clerics. How much can a God see? And how much do they care to look? 

The common folk generally believe a cleric would be stripped of their powers if they deviated from their God’s will, so can be trusted as long as their powers remain. Though some scholars claim it only proves they remain within an alignment step of the God, these scholars tend to be unpopular, particularly in places with established churches.

Cayden Cailean is said to feel for his clerics as he once did for his drinking buddies, party members and lovers. For other Gods a closer approximation might be colleagues, employees, or e̴̩̯̞̝̬̹̕̕ntity-̸ ̵who̷̞̞̬̞̯̎͒͝se-utility̸-is-valued-̸-̴and-̵̗̗̖̫̽̈́͆coordinated-with-̸̞̭̝̋͌̂͌for-mutual-̷̳̯̫͍͐͝benefiţ̶̆͊̽͝ͅ.

A God’s mind is vast but finite, they must divide up their attention based on their priorities, and how much else is happening at the time.

A God can look at their cleric with a fragment of mind beyond any mortal, or reply to prayers with the equivalent of a single line of code. 

He almost collapsed in relief when he felt the touch of Asmodeus’s attention and his spells flowing to him. A tension he hadn’t realized he was feeling across all his body released, muscles suddenly unclenched, suddenly light headed.

It was silly in retrospect, it had always been obvious that he was doing the right thing, but some small part of his mind must have still been doubting. 

And…. There was that feeling, like an extra finger on your hand you hadn’t noticed before, an extra spell slot waiting patiently to be filled. The dusty unpleasant air of the warehouse was tickling his throat and eyes while he prayed his thanks again and again, and humbly requested an extra Invisibility.

Not only approval but reward for his efforts. Asmodeus loved him.

Staying hidden in the attic was probably the smart thing to do. A city under sack was never safe, but they couldn’t be everywhere. He still heard the occasional sounds of distant screams, or the tramp of passing soldiers, but never too near. 

He wasn’t thirsty, you could, with a little ingenuity, if not much dignity, Create Water into your own mouth. And wash off the blood in the same way. It would be better if he had a flask, or even a cup, but he’d not planned that well.

He didn’t have any food either, but he knew you could last much longer without food than water. He’d gotten too used to being wealthy and safe, gotten out of the habit of carrying food everywhere. Stupid.

Mid-morning he risked a peek out through the gap in the roof, dagger in hand and Invisibility on his lips. But hadn’t seen anyone. Looking towards the shore the skyline was full of smoke, like the Galtans had burnt half the city.

Was the Break safe from fire? It was almost all wood. But being above the sea should help shouldn’t it? And half of it was damp with rot anyway. He vaguely remembered there had been plans to drop parts of it as firebreaks. Hopefully the Galtans were smart enough to do similar. Unless they were setting fires deliberately, wanting to sack and burn the city then flee before Her Majesty’s army fell upon them.

Lacking a better idea, he nailed back the boards and returned to the attic. He was restless. Strange as it was with no food and a night of fragmented sleep he couldn’t sit down.

He paced the attic and examined the walls. In the jagged light coming through the gaps in the ceiling he could see the marks on the walls a bit better.  There was another of the star mark he’d followed, but larger, and carved with a bit more care. For the star itself they’d left the pale wood visible, but around it someone had rubbed the wood with charcoal darkening it, making the rough shape of a mask with the star as one eye. He belatedly made the connection with the book of Norgorberite theology he’d found in that confiscated book.

Norgorber wasn’t a permitted God in Cheliax. But that might just be because the Church didn’t want to encourage the peasantry to commit crimes? Vyre was said to be ruled by Norgorber cultists, and it was part of the empire, always had been. And Norgorber had probably been a subject of the empire as well in that case?

What he’d read of the book sounded pretty Asmodean, all about getting what you wanted by trickery. A bit more emphasis on outright lies than the exact words that Lawful Gods preferred, and on surreptitious murder over Tyranny. But that was only to be expected for one of the Starstone Gods, risen above humans but still weaker than Asmodeus.

But Norgorber could still serve Him, like Dispater or Abadar. They would certainly be allied against the Good gods, and Asmodeus wouldn’t have led Orgull to this place if they were opposed. 

As such he said a brief prayer of thanks to Norgorber. Adapting one of the litanies used for the Archdevils, with every second line reinforcing that this was all done in the service of Asmodeus, the greatest of Gods.

Late in the afternoon, he heard drunken singing slowly approaching below. Galtan soldiers wandering down the street, smashing open warehouses as they went.

Abby was a sorcerer
Way hey ya
A sorcerer a blasphemer
Ab-bey Thrune

Abbey’s Queen o’ Chel-ee-ax
Way hey ya
She learned ta make them devils dance.
Ab-bey Thrune!

Could be take them? Probably not. 

Not enough time to lever the boards away, not without making a noise. 

Sucked ol’Asmody’s cock
Way hey ya
Now she’s Queen O’Chel-ee-ax
Ab-bey Thrune! 

In Galt we whipped her good
Way hey ya
Andoran said no thank you 
Ab-bey Thrune! 

Now Cyprians come knocking
Way hey ya
Take her crown and country too
Ab-bey Thrune!

A muffled discussion outside, then a wet crumpling from the door.

He crept into the furthest back corner, and burned one of his precious Invisibilities

The sound of footsteps and rummaging below. 

“Nothing in here, just empty barrels and stink of piss”

“We should still look around. Might be somethin’”

“Yeah I bet there’s a dozen Chelish sluts with bottles of fine Andoran whisky. Probably behind that barrel there, just waiting for your ugly cock.”

Laughter from the others.

“Better mine than yours, whatever nasty pox you got from that ugly whore last night.”

More laughter.

“Come on, let’s go. There’s more fun down at the docks.”

The singing resumed now repeating

Cyprian had 500 soldiers
Cyprian had 500 soldiers
Cyprian had 500 soldiers 
Marching in step! 

With laughter each time. The joke of shoving one another at the final line apparently never getting old. 

The sound faded as they got further away. 

He stayed in the attic the rest of the day, and through the night. 

The energy he’d felt in his blood through the day, that had him shaking, with the desire to take vengeance on the invaders, dripped slowly away. Leaving him feeling faint and drained. And without quite meaning to, he slept through the night. 

He was in the orphanage, back when he’d been one of the smaller kids fighting for scraps.

But instead of the older children tormenting him it was Galtan soldiers, towering above him and laughing as they feasted on food he couldn't touch. 

The orphanage was burning, the smell of smoke overwhelming everything, but nobody but him seemed to care. 

He woke with a start at dawn and prayed.

He’d only used the one Invisibility, so he just requested his Lord refill that one. 

He prayed by rote, repetitively, nothing new to report, his mind kept stumbling into half remembered images of the night before. 

He needed to get out of there.

It was his responsibility to assess the lay of the land, work out how the invaders were situated, to gather intelligence for when the Queen’s army came.

He’d need to leave behind the more distinctively soldiery bits of the clothing he’d stolen from Arnau. The additional protection it afforded wouldn’t be worth the risk of drawing more attention. The shirt and breeches he’d worn under them would do, they were a little loose on Orgull when he wasn’t taking on the other man’s shape. But that would probably help him look small and harmless.

With his normally neat facial hair fuzzy at the edges, and the general level of grime, he'd pass for a slum dweller to anyone who didn't know his face well. 

The district of rotting warehouses was quiet when he emerged, but the docks were active.

It would almost feel like a normal quiet day, maybe one in the winter when the merchant ships were fewer, and the weather kept people indoors. People were walking back and forth on errands, or with packages. They looked at him suspiciously or contemptuously as he passed, but that was probably just the clothes.

The taverns and brothels that normally shouted out invitations to passing sailors were quiet. Actually there were barely any women or children to be seen.

Galtan soldiers were scattered around in pairs and small knots, mostly guarding the half scorched remains of the naval ships, but also patrolling in pairs. Making sure you didn’t forget they were there.

The pier connecting the Break to the mainland was gone. Where the barricades the soldiers had been assembling behind had been there was now only cracked spars of wood sticking out of the water.

He didn’t know enough of military matters to know if that meant they had endured a long battle before being overwhelmed, or the invaders had hit them with some magic that just tossed them in the sea all at once. It was probably the former, they’d seemed not wholly incompetent, and brave.

Moloch welcome these souls into your legions. Let them serve Our Lord in eternal glory as they did in this brief pitiful life. 

The Galtans seemed to be setting up a rope bridge for their people to cross, and enterprising citizens were ferrying people across to the mainland on boats. - The smell of food distracted him. In the square that had previously faced the pier clumps of people were lined up in front of tents, smelling maddeningly of fresh bread.

At the head of the line sat a Galtan official of some sort. Each little clump of people stopped in front of him. Some just briefly, others for a few minutes. He was all smiles, but Orgull could see him taking notes after each group he talked to.

First step of an occupation: Take control of the population. Find potential dissenters. Recruit collaborators.

He wasn’t stupid enough to give himself away, just to soften the aching feeling in his stomach. He was strong, always had been. But still, he couldn’t serve Asmodeus very well if he was having to conserve his strength. It might be worth using one of his precious Invisibilities to get the food without coming to the attention of the “authorities.”   

He was hungover as fuck. Why was everything in this city so bright and loud. What had he done to get assigned this rather than something like inventorying treasure in a nice cool basement?

An old Chelish woman with two children was next in line. Grandmother? He put on his best talking-to-civilians smile and wished them a good day, asked them if they would mind terribly telling him where they lived and with how many people?

Her answer was evasive. Not helpful. Why were Chelish people so fucking cagey about everything?

Well. He knew why really.

Fuck the water situation for this place was going to be a nightmare. Not enough clerics to replace the hellpriests. Most of those would leave with the army anyway.

No fucking idea how many of these poor souls lived in the Break. The Godsdamned Asmodeans had burned their records. Probably all wrong anyway. Everyone with sense would have lied and hidden from Church and Crown anyway.

At least the people on this bizarre wooden shantytown could shit off the edge into the sea. He wouldn’t want to be in the mainland slums in a month. Sewerplague killed more than soldiers, and less kindly. Maybe that Archhealer everyone kept talking about would do some sort of miracle.  

Food lines were the only way to get people to talk to them. It should help. Show them not everyone is the same. Win the hearts and minds. All that. 

He tried to smile reassuringly at the littlest of the lady’s kids. A sexless looking pile of bones wrapped in a sheet and hiding behind her(?) grandmother’s(?) legs. It just looked back at him impassively. Gods forgive him he wished they'd cry or something.

He’d heard stories about life in Galt before they’d kicked out the diabolists, but it had never felt quite real. He could understand now why the terror might have been a blessed relief. Why you’d burn everything to the ground. Rather than see kids like this. 

Sarenrae preserve these children, so that they might grow up in a free land.

The wind flapped the tent behind him. The child stepped back, wary.

He waved them on to get their bread. Wrote: 

W(GM?)+3C. pillar 1 SW?

in the book. Added 4 strikes to his running tally.

Should ask one of the clerics to do an extra circuit up here. Focus on the children.

The tent flapped again. Did the wind have to be so fucking loud about it. 

He turned to the next group, a man and woman this time, standing close but not touching. Forced a smile on his face again.

He was hidden down an alley, behind a pile of broken wood that had been piled up, when his Invisibility ran out.

No sounds of pursuit, the Galtans had been arrogant in their victory, it would cost them later. 

The bread was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He’d filled his pockets with it for later.  

It wasn’t stealing, obviously. They were an invaders and infidels. If you could kill them in war you could certainly liberate their supplies. 

He took a boat that was going to the middle city docks. Paid ten times the normal price, in gold. He was saving the paper money as it was easier to carry. 

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.

“There’s a few Abadarians who channel positive, but the bastards are charging even more now. Must be a lot of injured men in the city who don’t want to pay the cost of the ‘free’ healing the Galtans brought over. If you catch my meaning sir hoho”

He took a drink from his beer then glanced around and lowered his voice.

“I know some men injured defending the city who still haven’t gotten their wounds healed. And, if I may be so bold sir, I know that Chosen of your station can do restorations as well? There’s men with blood sickness from wounds, or other stranger things.

They’d pay a pretty penny for some assistance from a trustworthy source. I could arrange things for you, for a small commission. 

I know you want to be discreet. I’m not going to go putting up flyers around town hoho. 

But I know these men, served with some of them, or their father’s. They’re solid, loyal Asmodians. You’d want them fighting fit when you retake the city anyway I reckon.”

It was tempting, the prices for those were considerable even in normal times, and right now it could easily be twice that. He wasn’t exactly short of money, he still has the valuables he’d saved from the office. But more money meant more options. And the commission would give Bernat another reason to be loyal. 

So far he’d just been selling cantrips but providing healing would mean using the limited slots he kept ready for emergencies.That was a worrying risk. 

He wouldn’t be entirely bereft though. He could use his free slots on Cure Light Wounds and Lesser Restoration, and keep one Disguise and one Invisibility in reserve, using the additional slots His Lord granted him for his special talent in the domain of Trickery.

It had been a week of boring hanging around without ever needing to dip into that reserve. He'd been using them to get drinks in a bar for Hell's sake. It was a risk sure, but a calculated one. A Chosen shouldn’t just be sitting around all day watching birds and mending cookpots. If he was to actually make a difference in retaking the city he’d need to start getting out there again and making connections.

“An intriguing thought. I suppose I could do spare a spell a day for them.”

Bernat hesitated

“Begging your pardon sir, but there’s dozens of these men, and I fear they won’t all last long. You always say our lives are our Lords property, would be a shame to waste them.”

“I would love to heal every loyal Asmodean in the city at once Bernat, but too many at once poses an unacceptable risk. How much was it you said they were willing to pay?”

He let Bernat 'convince' him, arguing down his own share and raising the minimum price. It was a little embarrassing to see what sentiment would lead a man to do really. 

"Very well. I think 3 healings of wounds and 2 restorations a night gives the best balance."

Best to let the man think he had more to spare. And the technicality of a 'lesser' restoration needn't trouble a layman. (He wasn't honestly sure what ailments it did and didn't heal, but it couldn't hurt. And its not like they would be asking for their money back.) 

"I'll visit the first set of men tomorrow night. Then take a day off to see if the Galtans notice anything." 

“Have the men provide you with their addresses and I’ll visit them at their homes. So as not to attract attention here. After all if a bunch of soldiers limp their way in, and merrily walk out afterwards, even the Galtans might notice!”

“Hoho sir, that they might. Very clever sir. I can see you’ve thought of everything then. I’ll handle the men don’t you worry.

It’ll mean a late night for you I suppose, I’ll set out some extra jugs and cisterns around the back so you can fill them at your leisure before you go, and we won’t need to trouble you in the morning. We can bring you up breakfast and leave it by your door for when you wake up.

Do you want myself and some of the lads to accompany you to the visits sir? I hear stories of men being robbed down every alley since the invasion, even if you avoid the Galtans.”   

Archdevils assembled, the man really would laugh at anything. 

“No need. A group of men all walking together will attract more attention I think.” 

And best not to give the impression that a Chosen needed protection.

“Your bouncer may have the strength of an ogre, but he has the stealth of one as well besides.”

“Haha true enough sir true enough. You do have a wit on you don’t you. Maybe you could have been a Bard if our Lord didn’t Choose you…."

"Meaning no offense of course.

I’m sure it was never in doubt. None could be more obviously suited for our Lord's service.

....

And I'm sure even if somehow He hadn't you'd be a Captain or a....”

Orgull gave him his best steely somber priest expression...

And held it for two whole rounds before his grin broke through and he couldn't help but laugh 

Bernat laughed along, even more than he had earlier, only partially out of relief. 

The next night Orgull visited the houses of each man in turn. There were Galtan patrols enforcing the curfew, but they were trivial enough to avoid without wasting any spells. He noticed the occasional other figure taking the roofs and back alleys, but they kept their distance, or exchanged polite nods.

The men were all effusively grateful, of course. He surprised them by charging only a little above the previous market rate, along with their sworn oath to assist him in the future at his discretion.

An ongoing relationship was always more valuable, he’d known that since he was a boy, and if he was going to lead the Asmodean resistance in this city he’d need men to do rough work on occasion.

On the way back he kept getting stuck on the wrong side of Galtan patrols, needing to wait interminable periods for them to pass. While tensely hiding in alleys he was been tempted more than once to just use his remaining spells and walk right past them, but he resisted. 

Upon returning to his room he shoved his payment from the night under a loose floorboard. Wrapping it in his soldiers clothes. He’d need to unstitch the things hidden in the seams, but he'd not got round to it. There'd be plenty of time in the morning to sort them both and give Bernat his cut. 

He collapsed in bed fully clothed, hoping to get a couple hours sleep before he had to wake up and pray. 

Very slightly before true dawn:

Knock knock!