Mercy to the End

[Chiangtao]

"You're a good man, Mard," penned the good doctor. "Prevail."

Doc Snyder left it at that: simple and to-the point. He placed his quill back in its inkwell. He folded the letter in thirds, then sealed it with wax. Slowly, he pressed his seal into the wax - the hands of the Martyr. He let it sit longer than it should. His heart was resigned to the matter, but it was still heavy. These small moments were all he had.

When he lifted it away, the wax had bound to the seal, and the symbol became distorted. "Fitting," he thought. He never saw eye-to-eye with the Triumvirate. Their methods were distorted versions of mercy. And yet here was the distortion in his own methods. It gave him pause.

"They need strength," he said to himself. "Reckon they need it now most. We ask 'em to stare death in the face and accept what's a-comin'. A man can't do that without hope of what's next. Can't do it without..."

Doc spat to his side, frustrated with himself. Giving himself a pep talk was acknowledging a sliver of doubt. "Shut up, Doc. You know the path."

************************************************** *****

A letter addressed to Terry Mard is left at the Triumvirate. Along with the above, it names a cheap inn and room number in Sundren City.

[roguethree]

The Triumvirate commissions a sending from an off-duty Scholii.

"Tery. Letter at the Triumvirate temple. Retrieve, or give location. Dain."

[Dave Fritz]

Tery Mard arrives at the Temple of the Triumvirate. After inquiring, he is handed Doc Snyder's letter. Outside the Temple, he opens it, reads it, and smiles. "Doc made it out. That is good news."

He heads for the Inn mentioned, to see if he can locate Doc or find out more information.

[Chiangtao]

Doc slipped quietly into Sestra under the cloak of night. His hat was drawn low to keep the rain off his neck, and he pulled his robes tight in the cold air. He knew the streets well, and he snaked his way past questioning eyes to the center of town.

He arrived at the monument next to the Shrine of Chauntea. The guard on-duty eyed him suspiciously. Regardless, Doc continued up the path to the fenced monument.

There, Doc set down his medicine bag and opened it. First, he withdrew two clean sheets and set them on the ground. He weighed their corners down with small stones nearby. Once the sheets were set, he dug further into his bag. He removed bandaging, vials, and various medical instruments.

The nearby guard was a man Doc recognized. He was a citizen of Sestra - likely turned in the recent events. But the guard knew Doc, too. Not liking his odds, the man walked off to report the event.

************************************************** *******

The guard returned with the new lord of Sestra. The lord carried a staff, which he leaned on heavily as he walked. His clothing was white and ornate. A green locket hung from his neck. Bane's fist was sewn into a crest on his tunic.

The lord approached the monument. He stuck his staff into the sheets, preventing the doctor from continuing his work. "A bit late to be setting up shop, isn't it?," spoke Lord Adeodatus.

"Reckon so. Work to be done," explained Doc. The doctor's hands trembled as he spoke, and he rubbed them together to stay his heart. He did his best to ignore the fear and focus on setting up his medical tent.

The two men spoke courteously. It was clear Doc did not know the lord, but his power became evident over the course of the conversation.

"Do you know that I am a good man?," asked the lord. "I shepherd my flock. I bring them into the light... some must be dragged into it." Doc's shaking grew.

Doc felt inside his medicine bag and extracted a wooden box. With an audible sigh, he clutched it lovingly. He opened the box and extracted the prize within: a symbol of Ilmater. He donned the symbol around his neck, and his shaking lessened.

The lord gave pause, his eyes narrowing on the symbol. But he continued in his conversation...
"...those gallows are for criminals. Nothing more, nothing less. But what is more powerful than fear? I don't mean fear of death; fear of an entity far beyond your comprehension. Once you embrace the fear of Bane, you are free. Freedom from fear in anything but him."

Doc clutched his pendant, staving up the nerve to reply. "Reckon I am afraid - damn straight. But see, here's the thing: I'm scared shitless, but it don't stop me from doin' what aught be done. I have fear in my heart, and I defy you."

The words did not sit well with Lord Adeodatus. The lord stooped to Doc, whispering his threats. "One word of Ilmater, and I will have you branded as a heretic and exiled - or worse."

Standing, the lord added, "Comply to those terms, and you're free to do as you wish. We could use a good healer in my town."



(( Thanks to Adeo for this. Too much to type the whole conversation; I hope I did some of it justice. ))

[Dave Fritz]

((( Content removed by OP ))

[Chiangtao]

Doc and finished his setup in Sestra. It wasn't pretty at all, he had to admit. Frankly, he hadn't thought he'd get this far. But, the new exarch had "seen fit" to let him set up shop. So long as he wasn't at the end of a noose, Doc would do what he could for the people.

He brought enough supplies to erect a tent, but the posts were woefully short. He found himself stooping to stay in the shelter. Wood was in short supply, with the reconstruction efforts in the recently-seiged town, so he had to make due.

The tavern next door was thriving. Funny, Doc thought, they always do, no matter what the times. The clients were different, for sure. In happier days, he and Terry had shared a drink or six in that tavern. There was music, smiles, and merriment all around. And to be fair, some of that was still there. But laughter died whenever a black-clad stranger entered; no one trusted intentions anymore.

So, by the fortune of the tavern, Doc was able to borrow some basic shelving to complete his medical tent, as rustic as it was. It was clean and dry, and that's about all he could say about it. "Functional" came to mind.

It was the final touch that gave him greatest pause - his holy symbol for his Lord Ilmater. In better days, it hung proudly above the door of his quarters. The new exarch made it clear - speak one word of the Crying God and you'll be exiled. Hanging the symbol wasn't exactly "word," but Doc didn't think this man the right sort to play symantics with.

My duty is to my god, thought Doc. It is by his graces that we know and understand "humanity." Mercy is the beginning of trust, and without trust there is no society. Without trust, there is only dark towns, dark homes, and dark strangers. The path is through His word, and no service is done if that word is not preached.

My duty is to the people, he countered to himself. Neither exile nor noose were Doc's concern - he would give his life if it made a difference. And he thought here, it might. But living, he could heal the wounded from the seige. He could treat the sick. He could be the lone beacon in the night, so desperately needed in the dark fog of despair surrounding Sestra. His service would be their hope; no sermons or symbols would be needed.

He clutched the symbol and prayed for an answer.