Togseph was now without the meteor and without a coin to show for all the time he'd spent trying to steal it. Stranded in Tabnoth, he had nowhere to sleep, the taverns wouldn't let him through their doors. It was quite the predicament. For now, all he could do was wander the streets, hoping for an opportunity to come his way. As he walked, Togseph's feet swung forward in an exaggerated, sweeping motion, one after the other, as if the act of stepping itself required effort. His eyes remained fixed on the afternoon sky, where the sun pierced through the clouds, suffusing them with warm orange hues and transforming them into massive lampshades for the colossal, glowing orb above. The sight drew a sigh from him—a sharp inhale followed by a long, emptying exhale that left his lungs hollow. In that moment, he felt achingly small and powerless.
Over his shoulder, he carried the unconscious body of the Wood Elf girl he had been fighting earlier. The orc boy's body, by contrast, had been unceremoniously discarded into the city drainage.
Brooding within the littoral cave systems roughly twenty-three kilometers from Tabnoth lies the cult of Phorcys' main temple grounds. The central altar is strewn with bones and rotten flesh. Around the carnage, six cultists lounge in gray robes, their faces obscured by white clay masks shaped like sea lion skulls. One of them, a pot-bellied figure, picks at his teeth with his fingers and lets out a loud burp. Reclining on his side, his head propped on one hand, he seems entirely at ease.
"How was lunch, gentlemen?" a voice calls from behind.
The cultists flinch and scramble to their feet, tripping over themselves in their haste.
"Oh, good heavens—it's just you, Luven. You had us worried for a moment there," the pot-bellied cultist says, exhaling in relief as he approaches Luven, offering a greasy handshake.
"Lovely." Luven ignores the gesture. "Anyway, I brought you all a gift." He tosses a large sack onto the ground with a thud.
The cultists rush toward it, their robes tangling as they scramble to reach the bag first.
"Ohh~ it's wrapped in parchment!" one cultist exclaims, tearing at the sack eagerly.
"I found a coin purse with some copper in it!" another shouts triumphantly.
"This one's got… smelly bricks in it." A scrawny cultist sniffs the contents suspiciously, his disappointment evident.
"It's called soap, made by Venetian guildsmen. You should try washing yourselves with it," Luven says dryly.
The cultists pause, turning to stare at him in brief silence before resuming their frenzied rummaging.
"Check this out: hardtack—as if we didn't have enough of that already. You know, some dried meat would be nice… Oh wait, I just found some!" the pot-bellied cultist declares.
"Well, this is a feast fit for saints!" cries another, whose clay mask bears a crack across its surface. "Cheese, crackers, sugar, and tea—what a haul!"
One by one, the cultists kneel before Luven, attempting to kiss his hand in gratitude.
"That's enough!" Luven snaps, pulling his hand away. He produces a handkerchief and wipes it clean. "How's the summoning going?"
"We haven't heard back from the Father yet, sir," the pot-bellied cultist replies, clambering to his feet.
"You mean Gabron Sezlya?" Luven corrects him.
"He's a bishop, you know. You must refer to him by his title," the cultist counters.
"Ex-bishop, you mean. He was denounced by the Pope," Luven says, tucking the handkerchief back into his coat pocket.
"But how? What could the Pope have against him?" the scrawny cultist stammers, his voice tinged with fear.
"Someone spilled the secret—you fool!—and told him about your little summoning plan."
"What do we do?" the pot-bellied cultist asks, his expression blank with confusion.
"Well, you could gather your friends at the Pit and kill the boy," Luven suggests as he turns to leave.
"We can't kill the boy yet—not until we have the soul-cage," the cultist protests.
"Oh, well, I have it." Luven pulls a glass flask from his coat, the liquid inside glowing with an incandescent sapphire hue. "Best get busy with it."
He hands the flask to the pot-bellied cultist and strides out without another word.