What to do with the Brigand Cleric?

He shifted his gaze from Elenara, his crimson eyes settling on the Goblin Elder. The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows across the chamber, highlighting the lines of age and wisdom etched into the Elder’s face. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and burning pitch, and the low murmur of distant activity echoed through the dungeon’s corridors. Grashok’s expression was open, his usual stern demeanour softened by the camaraderie of those gathered around him.

“How goes the investigation into the Brigand Cleric?” he asked, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of curiosity. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the arms of his throne, his clawed fingers steepled in front of him.

The Elder inclined his head, his gnarled hands gripping the head of his staff. “It progresses well, my lord,” he replied, his voice gravelly but steady. “Both Ellyn and Nyxie have been instrumental in this matter. Nyxie, as a witness to the events, has provided valuable insight, and Ellyn…” He paused, glancing at the woman, who sat quietly beside him. “Ellyn’s connection with the other humans has been invaluable. They seem to trust her, which has made gathering information far easier.”

Ellyn’s cheeks flushed at the praise, and she looked down at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. She was not used to such recognition, and it left her both embarrassed and pleased. “I… I only did what I could,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’ve been through so much. It’s important they feel heard.”

Grashok nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Your efforts are appreciated, Ellyn,” he said, his tone warm. “Trust is not easily earned, especially under these circumstances. You’ve done well.”

The Elder continued, his voice taking on a more serious note. “One of the former captives—a woman who knew the Cleric from before—has provided some crucial information. She said the Cleric was a travelling healer, known for her skill and compassion. She even healed the woman’s brother after he was kicked by a horse. The others corroborated her story, all agreeing that the Cleric only ever healed and was with the brigands reluctantly. It seems she was coerced into their company, likely under threat or duress.”

Grashok’s brow furrowed as he considered this. “So, she’s not one of them,” he said slowly, more to himself than to the others. “She was a prisoner, much like the rest.”

The Elder nodded. “It would appear so. Her story checks out, and there should be no issues from the former slaves if she joins us.” At this, he glanced tentatively towards Ellyn and Elenara, clearly gauging their reactions.

Ellyn, still slightly flustered from earlier praise, gave a small, firm nod. Elenara, more reserved, merely inclined her head in agreement.

That was enough.

Ellyn spoke up, her voice soft but firm. “She’s skilled, my lord. Her healing abilities could be a great asset to us. And if she was forced to work with the brigands, she may be grateful for the chance to start anew.”

Elenara added, her tone pragmatic, “We could use someone with her talents. Healing is always in demand, especially with the Ratkin threat looming. If she’s willing to swear loyalty to the dungeon, she could prove invaluable.”

Grashok sat back in his throne, letting out a long breath as he weighed their words. The decision was not one to be taken lightly, but the evidence was clear, and the potential benefits were undeniable. After a moment, he straightened, his expression resolute.

“It’s decided, then,” he announced, his voice carrying the weight of finality. He reached out with his mind, accessing the demesne menu that only he could see. The translucent interface shimmered in the air before him, its glowing symbols and options familiar yet always awe-inspiring. With a few mental commands, he instructed the Batlings to summon the Cleric.

As soon as he closed the menu, a tiny Batling detached itself from the shadows high above, its leathery wings unfurling as it dropped from the ceiling. The creature let out a soft chirp before darting through the chamber and out into the corridor, its mission clear. The sound of its flapping wings faded into the distance, leaving the room in a momentary silence.

Grashok leaned back once more, his expression thoughtful. “We’ll see what she has to say for herself,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “If she’s as skilled and trustworthy as you say, she could be a valuable addition to our ranks.”

Grashok turned his gaze back to Ellyn, studying her delicate features as she sat among them. “What progress has been made with justice for the freed humans?” he asked, his voice steady but laced with a low, commanding tone. “Have they decided who among their captors is innocent, and who should answer for what was done?”

Ellyn’s eyes widened slightly. Her posture stiffened, and her golden hair shimmered in the torchlight as she lowered her head, visibly stricken by the weight of what she was about to recount.

“They endured… more than words can hold, for many months and, for some, far too many winters,” she said softly, voice trembling at the edges. “But they were honest—surprisingly so. Maren and I spoke to all of them, and despite their fury, they were deliberate in their judgments.”

She swallowed, gathering herself.

“There are three groups. First, a small number of the female brigands were said to have shown small kindnesses, or at least refrained from cruelty. Those ones have been separated—spared, for now.”

Her hands tightened in her lap.

“Then there is the larger portion of the women… the ones who took part in the beatings, the starvation, the humiliation. The survivors’ anger toward them burns white hot, Grashok. They spoke of things done to break them, to make them obedient. There is no forgiveness for those.”

She drew a slow, unsteady breath.

“And then… the last group.” Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Twelve of them. All mages. Every man we captured falls among them, along with some of the women. They were the worst of all — led by the hedge mage, the brigands’ second‑in‑command. He was the ringleader; he set the tone, and the others followed willingly. They took pleasure in what they did… especially to the women. There was no hesitation in them, no reluctance. Only want.”

Her voice wavered. “When the freed ones spoke of these twelve, there was no rage left… only something colder. A kind of horror.”

Grashok inclined his head slightly. “You and Maren have done well. It could not have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” Ellyn admitted, her voice faint. “But we’ve arranged them—those spared, those guilty, and the worst of them—into separate cells where the power of the wardens is already working its lust‑filled magic. They await your judgment.”

His mind turned over the considerations, but it kept circling back to the same place. The twelve. The hedge mage and his eager followers. The horrors they had committed clung to him like a film of grease. Death, eventually. That much was certain. But as he lingered on them, something stirred at the edge of thought—an impression, a whisper of possibility, as if their end might serve a purpose he had not yet grasped. Whether it came from the dungeon, the wardens’ magic, or simply his own instincts, he could not tell. Not yet. So he would hold them, let the cells and the wardens’ power work on them, and wait until the shape of that purpose revealed itself.

His thoughts pivoted to the opposite extreme—the few who had shown restraint. Those who had offered water, loosened bindings, or spoken a quiet word of warning when cruelty might have gone further. Small mercies, but nothing he could weigh against the harm they’d done. That judgment belonged to the ones they had wronged.

Then came the larger portion—the female brigands who had beaten, starved, humiliated, but stopped short of the darkest depravity. The wardens’ lust magic was already working on them. He could let it consume them fully, turn them into willing playthings. Breed them. Add their offspring to the dungeon. But for how long? A season? A cycle? That, too, would be for their victims to determine.

He straightened, his expression hard, teeth clenched beneath the weight of judgment. “Let it be,” he growled, his voice like the rumble of an ancient glacier.

“Those who showed restraint will face the judgment of the ones they once guarded. It is their right to choose—mercy, service, or punishment. And for any whose victims cannot decide, I will choose for them, and they will share the fate of the crueller women.”

“These women, who revelled in deeper cruelty but were not among the inner circle, will face a harsher reckoning. Let the lust of the wardens consume them, and let them learn the price of their deeds as they are used by any of the clan who wish to sate themselves. Breed them, and we will take the resulting offspring as additions to our dungeon. Their victims shall decide how long they remain under that influence. Justice will be shaped by those who suffered most.”

“And the twelve—the hedge mage and his worst followers—will be held in the cells. Their deaths are assured, but the manner of it is not yet decided. I will decide when the time is right.”

He exhaled slowly, leaning back as the weight of his decisions settled over him. There was no pleasure in this justice—only necessity. Most had chosen cruelty, and a few had embraced monstrosity.

As the group sat in contemplative silence, the faint sounds of the dungeon’s activity echoed through the chamber—the distant clang of metal, the murmur of voices, the occasional skitter of small creatures in the shadows. Ellyn nervously cleared her throat, her fingers twisting together in her lap as she gathered her thoughts. The flickering torchlight cast a warm glow over her face, highlighting the faint blush that had crept into her cheeks. She was still unaccustomed to speaking so openly in front of Grashok and the others, but she knew the information she had to share was important. Taking a deep breath, she began.

“My lord,” she said, her tone carrying the weight of uncertainty. “I do not know enough about this, but I thought it best to bring it to your attention.”

Grashok turned his full attention to her, watching as she took a calming breath before continuing.

“As you know, Maren and I have been working to integrate the new human arrivals into the dungeon. Since they are not warriors, we have been searching for useful skills among them so that they can contribute to the clan as soon as possible. Most of them are women, and so far, we have found some skilled herders, basket weavers, a poacher, and even someone known for her baking.”

At this, a flicker of interest passed over Nyxie’s face. The goblin mage leaned forward slightly, as if already imagining the taste of fresh bread.

“But one of them…” Ellyn hesitated again, then pressed on. “One of them is a Priestess of the Dawn. Her name is Cicely. She was keen to tell us how incredibly thankful she is to you—both for your rescue of her and her family from slavery and for your role in saving her husband’s life. She’s expressed her loyalty to you and the dungeon, and I believe her gratitude is genuine.”

Ellyn paused before adding, “But she says she can sense our temple. She believes she can enhance it—bring it more power—if she were to serve as its priestess.”

Grashok let the words settle before responding. “Our temple…” he mused. “You mean the Dark Altar?”

Ellyn nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Grashok frowned, turning his gaze to the Elder and Nyxie. “Would that even work? The Dark Altar is, by its very nature… dark.”

The Elder rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It is an unusual proposal,” he admitted. “A Priestess of the Dawn would be an unlikely match for a Dark Altar. Their teachings do not align.”

Grashok turned to Nyxie. “What are the Priestesses of the Dawn, anyway?”

Nyxie tilted her head, considering the best way to explain. “They are followers of the Dawn Mother, a deity of light, hope, and renewal. They believe in guiding people through hardship, helping them find new beginnings after tragedy. They heal, they bless, and they ward off curses and corruption.”

Grashok grunted. “That does sound rather different from a Dark Altar.”

Nyxie smirked. “Completely opposite, really.”

The Elder hummed in thought, his gnarled hands resting on the head of his staff. “And yet, magic is not always so simple. If she were to connect with the Altar… something would change.”

Nyxie nodded, her expression thoughtful. “If Cicely were to become paired with the altar, it’s likely that both the altar and the priestess would change. The altar might absorb some of her light, tempering its darkness, while she, in turn, might be influenced by the altar’s inherent nature. The result could be something entirely new—a fusion of light and shadow, hope and mystery. But to what end, I cannot say.”

The Elder nodded in agreement. “It is a rare and unpredictable combination,” he said. “Such a union could strengthen the altar’s power, or it could alter its purpose entirely. There is no way to know without taking the risk.”

Grashok sat in silence for a moment his expression contemplative, turning the possibilities over in his mind. The idea of merging light and shadow was intriguing, but it was not a decision to be made lightly. He glanced at Ellyn, who was watching him with a look of concern, then at Nyxie and the Elder, whose faces reflected the gravity of the situation.

After a long moment, Grashok spoke, his voice calm but firm. “This is not a choice we should make for her,” he said. “If Cicely wishes to serve as the priestess of the temple, knowing the risks and the potential consequences, then it should be her decision. We will not force her into this, but we will not deny her the opportunity either.”

He turned to Ellyn, his expression softening. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You’ve done well in identifying her potential and considering the implications.”

Ellyn nodded, her cheeks flushing with pride at his praise. “Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly.

Grashok reached out with his mind once more, accessing the demesne menu. With a few mental commands, he dispatched a Batling to summon Cicely to the throne room. The tiny creature detached itself from the shadows above, its wings fluttering as it darted out of the chamber to carry out its task.

As the Batling disappeared into the corridor following its predecessor with silent determination, Grashok leaned back in his throne, his expression thoughtful. The room fell into a contemplative silence, each person lost in their own thoughts. The idea of merging light and shadow was uncharted territory, and the potential outcomes were as uncertain as they were intriguing.