“Clerics of Qymmos are of two minds when it comes to dungeons,” said Filera. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a schism, but it’s emblematic of two very different approaches to our god. For some, the dungeons are an endless source of new things to categorize, a paean to our god. For others, they’re a mockery of that same desire to categorize and systematize.”
“And which camp do you fall in?” asked Alfric.
“The former, naturally,” said Filera. “That’s part of why I wanted to speak with you. Do you go to clerics often?”
“Only for healing, not council,” said Alfric. “In Dondrian, I attended a weekly sermon, usually with my family. We were in rotation, a different church every week save for an expectation on holy days. The same six churches though, and a community of turners with us.” The term ‘turners’ was somewhat derisive but appropriate, in Alfric’s opinion. “I suppose it’s different here, when you’re all in a single temple.”
“It is,” said Filera. “There’s a weekly sermon, which rotates through the gods. In my opinion, the community is closer for it, but I imagine there are arguments for doing it the other way. People have their own understanding of the churches and their place within the community. The social aspect has always seemed, to me, irreplaceable.”
“Can I ask… why I’m here?” asked Alfric. “You must have people coming in all the time to hear about their problems. I want to make sure that your part of the deal is satisfied, and maybe I could do better if you’d tell me what you want me here for.” That felt like it was perhaps too direct and to the point, in a way that the people of the region didn’t care for.
“I find Pucklechurch a bit tepid, frankly,” said Filera. “The problems that people come to me with are ones that I do take some joy in solving, but I can already tell that I’m not cut out to stay here for the rest of my life. And that’s where you come in, an outsider whom I can vicariously live through. You’re never going to be more than an outsider, and my guess is that you’ll be moving on in a few months, so for once, I think that I’ll get something out of talking, rather than giving my time and attention.”
“You’re… lonely,” said Alfric.
“No,” said Filera. “Or I wouldn’t quite put it like that. There’s something that possesses the young, a need to wander and explore, to see the world, and I had my own chance at that, a dozen dungeons, which was more than enough for me. But the life I have now, and the people in it, fall into certain distinct sets, and the friends I’ve made in Pucklechurch, beyond just the congregants, don’t satisfy the itch.”
“Well, I can do my best, I guess,” said Alfric. “Did you want to hear about the dungeon?”
“If you would, please,” she replied.
Alfric essentially just repeated what was in the report. He wasn’t a natural storyteller, and he could feel that it was a bit dry but had no idea how to correct for that. He wanted it to be descriptive and evocative but gravitated toward the facts too much.
“Forgive me for stating something we both know, but you’re a chrononaut,” said Filera.
“Yes,” said Alfric. “They know now, but didn’t at the time.”
“You expressed reticence to engage with the bear,” said Filera.
“Having to redo a dungeon when we’d already gotten a fair amount from it didn’t appeal to me,” said Alfric. “Nor did the idea of dying or my teammates dying.” He had a very clear mental image of Mizuki getting sheared in half with one of those enormous shovel claws, though if it had been able to get Mizuki, it was far more likely that he would have already been dead by that point. “And a little bit I… don’t enjoy fighting the monsters as much as I thought I would.”
“No?” asked Filera, with an arched eyebrow.
“My mother doesn’t like fighting monsters, and she’s, well, possibly the most proficient dungeoneer in the world,” said Alfric. “She’s good at it, but being good at something doesn’t mean you have to like it. My father, on the other hand, seems to find some pleasure or glory in the fights, like it’s a chance to test his mettle, to best one of these creatures. And I’m competent at it, I feel, but the monsters are the thing I like least about dungeoneering. I keep hoping that a switch is going to flip and I’m going to find it exciting in the way my father seems to, but it’s, well… like doing dishes, I suppose. I take pleasure in the job being done, and I guess I don’t mind doing it, but it doesn’t fill me with the same kind of glee that I wish it did. I want something to flip over inside me so I’ll suddenly feel exhilaration from it, but so far… well, it seems like I take after my mother more.”
“And that explains some of your reluctance to engage with the bear,” said Filera.
“A small sliver of it,” said Alfric. “This is all in confidence, right?”
“On my oath as a cleric,” Filera said, nodding. “There’s no need to share it with anyone else, and I have no idea why someone might want to know.”
