The War Room

The lounge was a short walk from the receiving room, and Foster took his time getting there, marveling at the architecture as he went. The design came from the northern mountainous country of Kal'dal, home of the snow elves, lending the hall an air of comfortable grace. Black birch flooring met the red brick of the walls and a white stone ceiling with dark oak beams perpendicular to the wide hall. 

When Foster got closer to the lounge, his sensitive ears picked up the voice of a person he was hoping to avoid until after he got some quality food and a nap. "…not be tolerated. Tell Cardinal Rolsom that any attempts to pull his support will leave me so busy looking for other backers I might just forget to sign the documents excusing his son from excommunication. If that doesn't work—Oh no, Foster! at least change before you sit; you're getting filth all over the place. That Griffon leather armchair is worth more than you!"

The Saintess of the church of Sabrina and the woman who received the prophecy naming Foster the hero, Regina Sour, squealed in dismay as said hero tracked his filth all over the lounge and plopped into his usual spot. She stood on the other side of a low table from him, barely turning her head away from her assistant to shout her grievances. If he was honest with himself, and he rarely was, he may have gotten the chair dirty precisely because he knew it would bother her. It was incredibly easy, not to mention fun, to make her see red. It also didn't help that he found her incredibly attractive when her metaphorical pot boiled over. Even though he was currently on and off with Monica, he didn't see a problem with enjoying the view. She was a tiny little thing, barely making it to his mid-chest—granted, Foster was taller than most, but she was short even among smaller women. Her petite stature did not make her look childish, far from it. It only served to accentuate her womanly curves. She wasn't wearing the cream-white habit the women of the cloth typically wore, settling for a casual day dress that cinched around the waist, and she had her wheat blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail that hung all the way to her lower back. Foster ignored her protests and greeted the woman she had been speaking to. "Hello, Laura, you're looking well today. Apparently, congratulations are in order; I see Regina has let you in as a member of the staff at our little club. I hope the she-devil isn't overworking you."

"Thank you. Not at all, Sir Foster. As you can see, I am perfectly well rested." Though her voice was monotone and her face impossible to read as usual, the large, dark circles under her eyes spoke in direct opposition to her claim. The young priestess-in-training functioned as Regina's apprentice and assistant in the church and, given her presence here, was apparently now employed as a member of the staff at the War Room.

"Is that sarcasm I detect? Laura, you—oh sweetheart, why didn't you tell me you needed a break? Go get some rest, I'll wake you when we need to go back to the church." Regina's tone went from scolding mother to doting older sister, giving Foster whiplash.

"Thank you, La—Madam Regina." The young girl coughed at her near mistake—the only titles ever used at the War Room were Sir and Madam. The young brunette bowed, then walked through a door behind the bar, hopefully, off to go get some sleep. Foster looked back to Regina, who was scowling at him like he was the one who overworked the poor girl.

"What's that look for?"

"You, the floor, and the chair are all still filthy." She then waved a hand through the air and activated the cleaning enchantments in the room. All the blood and grime caked on him vanished in a puff of cool vapor that smelt of citrus.

She paused for a moment to sit in the chair across from him, then her scowl seemed to deepen. "Thank you."

Foster couldn't help a chuckle, "Don't hurt yourself, Lady Saint."

That earned him a blast of holy magic to the face, "I'm being serious… And don't call me that."

He barely felt the blast that could've killed a lesser man. Turning, he called to the bartender and asked for his usual breakfast and tea before shooting Regina a sidelong glance. "What, exactly, are you thankful for?" He thought it might be his recent success in slaying the Demon Lord, but there was no way she knew about that just yet. That news should only just now be making its way to her information network after the revelation in the throne room.

"For pointing out Laura's exhaustion, it… was an oversight on my part. I occasionally forget she's not like us yet." A brief flash of shame cracked her angry mask, but it was gone as fast as it arrived.

"Yet, huh? You've got high hopes for this one, then?"

"She's a good girl, talented. A hard worker too." She paused to sip a glass of red wine Foster hadn't noticed sitting on a nearby table, "She's also not a simpering, duplicitous, sycophantic, hypocritical sack of dragon shit like the rest of the clergy. Poor girl genuinely believes there's a goddess somewhere up there watching over us all." 

"Aren't you going to correct that misconception? I mean, you hate ignorance almost as much as you hate the church." He chose not to add that it was a little early in the day for wine—what would the pope say if he knew his greatest political rival was a day drinker who didn't believe in the god she was contracted to?

"It's not ignorance, it's faith. Besides, it's not like she won't learn the truth when I show her how to contract Sabrina."

Foster blinked. Had she really just said that? She was grooming her as a successor? "Are you really training her as a replacement? Aren't you a little young to be retiring?"

The stupefaction on his face, much to his irritation, seemed to amuse her, "Hah! That slimy old pope only wishes he could get rid of me that easily. You and I both know I'm not going anywhere until I've completely unified the church and merged the position of pope and saintess into one seat of power."

"Then isn't it a little early to start training her as a successor? I don't mean to discredit all the progress you've already made, but the church is about as clean as a sewer. Even if the Pope's power is in rapid decline, that last goal could take years, if not more."

 She wore an irritated frown, "Loathe as I am to admit it, I need to hang on to the corruption as long as I can—it makes everything so much easier to manipulate." She heaved a weary sigh, "It's distasteful, but bullying, bribes, and blackmail get the job done way too efficiently to give up on it just yet. 

"And… you may be right. Perhaps I am biting off more than I can chew, but I need to fix the church before greed tears the kingdom apart from the inside. I figure I will be the Saintess of iron and conflict so Laura can become one of peace—a new Lady Saint for a new era. She's starting her training now, so she knows how to hold onto the power once she gets it."

Foster's brows rose, and he let out a whistle of appreciation. He probably wouldn't have given it so much thought had he been in her position. "And to think you started out just like Laura, all doe-eyed and faithful."

"That was a different time—before I knew concepts like integrity and honor were dead." Before Foster got a chance to reply, they were interrupted.