Gord wakes up wounded and in pain and unable to remember what happened or where he is.

He instinctively casts cure light wounds on himself, too out of it to really consider what spell he's giving up. Sits up - why is he still swaying - oh, he's being carried on a stretcher, by men in Mendevian insignia.

Something about this situation feels oddly familiar.

"Hey, where -"

Then the wound on his chest reopens and he's hit with blinding pain and and passes out again.

"Make way! Coming through! Fetch a healer, quick!" 

"What happened to him?"

"Demon attack, probably. The wound on his chest keeps closing and reopening, it's probably some kind of curse."

"Demons, this close to the city?!"

Gord wakes up groggy and in pain and finally out of spells to convert, so he channels on instinct.

Sits up and looks around. What's he doing back in Kenabres?

"You're a cleric? Praise the Inheritor that we got to you in time! You must have not woken up properly the last few times so you couldn't channel. Are you feeling well now?"

"I can stand," Gord says, and demonstrates this by standing and then collapsing with a reopened wound.

"Someone get Terendelev!"

Heal.

"I am afraid even that hasn't healed you fully. Your wound will probably reopen again. But it should give you time enough to find out what's wrong, and a cure. If you're not a strong enough cleric yourself, you can ask for my help."

"Thank you," Gord says as he (very carefully) stands up again, for what is hopefully the last time.

He has seen Terendelev in human form before, but never face to face, which is probably the only thing saving him right now.

Another man he has carefully managed to avoid until today strides up. "You were attacked by demons, close to the city? Tell me all about it. Who are you, who is your god, and what is your business in Kenabres? I have an excellent memory for faces, and I don't recall seeing yours before."

He certainly hopes not, he's been careful not to wear his real face at the gates to Kenabres for several years now!

"I don't remember what happened," he says, less because it's true and more because he doesn't want to try an unprepared bluff on a powerful inquisitor. "Or how I got here, because I don't have any business in Kenabres." He'd rather leave the city than argue about being allowed to visit without a particular purpose in mind.

"My name is Thrush," he offers pretty much at random. "I'm a cleric of Gorum."

Conveniently missing memory is a staple adventurer excuse which he, Hulrun, will not abide in his orderly and lawful city.

"Will you repeat that under Zone of Truth?"

"I absolutely will, if those are the only questions you ask!"

"Come, Prelate, this is no time for an interrogation. Let the poor man enjoy the festival."

What, really?

What, really?

...but he stalks off, reluctantly, to interrogate the men who brought Gord in.

To be honest, he expected Hulrun to attack him on the spot for having a Chaotic Evil aura! Something here is odd, on top of all the rest.

After thanking Terendelev again and making his escape, Gord pats himself down and discreetly goes through his bag of holding to discover that -

Most of his equipment is there! His sword is in the bag and so are most of his potions and emergency scrolls and money. He's wearing his chainpants and his belt and a wholly unnecessary shirt. 

He's also wearing an unfamiliar magical amulet.

Um?

He tries taking it off; nothing visible happens. He stuffs it in the bag.

The wound on his chest hurts when he pokes it. He has no idea what it is but tomorrow he can try remove curse and neutralize poison and if he has to restoration and hopefully even if those fail he'll be able to sense if there is a curse or poison or whatnot involved.

He deliberates whether to get a room at an inn (and risk being caught by the Inquisition) or leave the city (and risk being caught out in the open with no spells) and settles on going to the festival square first, to hear the local news and get some free liquor and punch the straw dummy into a heap of straw (was he not meant to do that? they should really make a better festival-punching-target - fine, fine, here's a couple of mendings).

This is when the sky darkens and a giant voice buzzes over the city like a plague of locusts and Deskari makes a personal appearance to cut the head clean off Terendelev!

Aaaah run away?

Some of the people in the square shed their disguises to reveal themselves as demons who attack the nearest targets, although none of them bother Gord for the moment, perhaps because he has a big sword.

Some other people shed their disguises are paladins and inquisitors and so on, who attack the demons. A couple of the probably-paladins rush at Gord with a clear intent to smite first and ask questions later.

Why now?! He was doing so well blending in!!

He sets himself in a defensive stance and shouts "I'm not with the demons!" even though he knows they won't believe him.

A nearby halfling, who must be either Gorumite or Caydenite, tries to shoot fucking Deskari with a crossbow. It's not even a magical crossbow!

Whether due to a ridiculous morale bonus from the festival ale or an equally ridiculous amount of halfling luck, Deskari actually notices the bolt.

A gnat snaps its jaws at the Lord of Locusts, he rumbles, and swings down his scythe, bigger than houses, faster than the mortal eye can see -

He's not aiming at the halfling. 

An enormous fissure opens up as the ground around them shudders, shaking the gnat-sized people clinging to it off its shoulders and down, deep deep down into the abyss.

You know, metaphorically speaking.

Ugh, that really hurt! He probably lost most of that Heal's worth, just falling down. At least the mysterious wound hasn't reopened.

Gord eyes the uneven wall. He could probably climb it, but Deskari is apparently up there (seriously, Deskari is apparently out and about in Kenabres?!) and so the better part of valour consists of finding an out-of-the-way corner to cower in until tomorrow morning when he has his spells back.