She was middle-aged and sharp-eyed, and harbored the kind of polished ambition that made lesser priests nervous.
Recently, she had traded places with old Bishop Aldric in what the diocese called a “mutual reassignment.”
Aldric got the wild pagan borderlands - constant raids, questionable converts, and blessedly no Fanática.
And Jorvia got the prosperous diocese near the royal capital, fertile lands with fat tithes.
And one problem to solve.
She summoned Fanática the very next week.
The private audience chamber was finished with finest marble, tall windows letting in slanted afternoon light.
Jorvia sat behind a carved desk, her robes immaculate, her hands folded neatly.
Faná entered in her nun dress, and curtsied with genuine respect.
“Travelling Sister Faná- Mirella, your… reputation precedes you.”
Lady-Bishop Jorvia began with a calm voice.
"The Church values your zeal, but zeal without structure is chaos.
As a nun who has only received the first sacrament and chosen the path of itinerant ministry, your rank is still modest.
Despite the affection that our great Guide undoubtedly feels for you.
You are not a true saint.
The Church has yet to declared you one.
Therefore, from today onwards, you will abide by the following rules."
She slid a parchment across the desk.
- No divine interventions without prior approval from a middle-ranked priest or higher.
- All perceived sins must be reported to this diocese for evaluation before action.
- Miracles are to be limited to sanctioned quests or emergencies explicitly authorized by this office.
Faná read the list slowly, her eyes brightening with every line.
She looked up, beaming.
“Yes, Lady-Bishop! The Goddess delights in order and obedience. I accept these holy guidelines with joy.”
Jorvia blinked.
“…You do?”
“Of course! The Goddess speaks through Her appointed shepherds.”
Faná folded the parchment neatly, tucked it into her sleeve, and curtsied again.
“Thank you for your wise counsel.”
And she left with a serene smile.
Back at the Rusty Tankard (the damage was repaired thanks to a generous donation from the diocese), Faná returned to the corner booth where the party waited.
Gorzod was drinking an ale.
Thrain counted shiny coins.
Liora lounged against a beam with arms crossed, and Erian fidgeted with his staff.
Faná sat down, smiling radiantly.
She looked at her party gathered in silence.
When curious glances finally appeared among them and the barbarian grunted.
“The bishop gave me rules! Very clear ones,” she began.
“No smithing without permission, report all sins first, miracles only on approved quests. She even wrote them down!”
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Faná pulled crumpled parchment from her sleeve and put on table with a loud ‘bam’.
Gorzod took a long pull from his mug.
“...And you agreed?”
“Yes! It is right and proper.”
Thrain rubbed his temples. “Lass. You remember what happened the last time someone tried to ‘guide’ you?”
Fanática tilted her head. “That was different. He spoke like he didn’t believe the Goddess speaks through me.”
Liora gently corrected the non-existent imperfections of her perfect hairstyle.
“She’ll last three days. Maybe four.”
Only Erian looked at her with anticipation, almost encouraging. “I believe in you, Faná!”
No one else said anything.
The next morning the party joined a merchant caravan heading north-east on a route to a quest.
The wagons were loaded with spices, cloth, pilgrims and travellers.
Faná rode in her simple nun robes, her maul wrapped in cloth and stowed under the seat.
She hummed softly, content.
Two hours out, the road narrowed through a wooden pass.
Road bandits stepped from within the trees and bushes, surrounding them.
Aa quick count told Liora that there were twenty-three, armed, rugged and grinning... no, two more with bows were lurking high up in the branches among the dense foliage.
With the Fanática's own party and adventurers hired as guards, they had 13 men and women at arms.
The odds were not stacked in their favour.
And bandits knew it.
Their leader, a scarred man with a missing ear, leered at Faná and Liora.
“Coin, goods, and the pretty ones too,” he called. “Or we’ll take everything, including your life, by force.”
The merchants froze.
The pilgrims groaned.
The group drew their weapons, the dwarf and the barbarian stepped forward, pushing the scared caravan guards aside.
Gorzod's axes whirled around, and Thrain struck his shield twice with his hammer: in his clan, this was considered a grim symbol of fight to the death.
Then they Erian heard from behind: "Faná-wait! You promised the Lady-Bishop! No divine powers without-"
Fana was standing up high on the wagon bench.
Her smile was the usual gentle one, one that usually appeared right before everything became very bright.
“But this is just cause.” she muttered, as she raised the maul upwards.
Bandits, guards, pilgrims, merchants, everyone was looking at the young nun raising the holy maul upwards.
A glimmer of fearful understanding appeared on the faces of some of the bandits.
“O Goddess of Safe Passage and Unbroken Caravans,” she intoned sweetly, “rebuke these parasites who prey upon the faithful!”
And the sky cracked with golden light.
For a heartbeat, the world turned white.
Night had fallen.
The caravan camp was set up beside a smoking, medium-sized crater that bisected the main trade road like some kind of divine bite mark.
Wagons were backed up for a quarter-mile.
Merchants, pilgrims, and hired adventurers shoveled the dirt in grim silence since midday, trying to level the hole enough for passage.
It would probably take a few hours more.
The party sat around a small campfire, filthy with the dirt and crater grit - all except Liora, who had somehow stayed pristine.
Gorzod were starting into flames.
Thrain methodically cleaned his hammer.
Erian hugged his knees, looking somehow guilty.
Faná approached them, humming a cheerful hymn, with a shovel over her shoulder.
“I offered to clear a path with the Goddess holy aid... around the crater!
But everyone said no.
So I helped shovel instead.”
She sat down next to the campfire.
Thrain looked up at her. “Lass… you just promised the bishop yesterday.”
Faná nodded earnestly.
“I did! But bandits were an emergency.
And the Goddess clearly agreed.”
Liora, gazing at the stars, muttered to herself. “Three days. I said three days.”
Erian looked around at those gathered around him and smiled slightly. “At least the road will be safer.”
The dwarf nodded slowly. “Aye, as soon as we dig it out.”
In the distance, a courier galloped down the southern road, a sealed dispatch from the caravan master bouncing ominously in his satchel.