In the Temple of Qotal, Yamash was thinking.

You broke your family for nothing. The thought was accusatory, but Yamash couldn't deny its truth. Let's count, shall we? First, there was Chimalma.

When his daughter's heart was taken, the rains came down morning and midday. The crops grew greener over the months, the people less hungry, the threatening hum of the populace died down to mere murmurs. Then the rain was only in the morning, but the crops still grew… and then there was no rain at all. Yamash saw all of this from his towers in the temple and it was only a matter of a few dry days until the people thronged the temple again, asking for more miracles. In a matter of six months, he'd gone from savior to charlatan.

He poured himself a drink – it was strong and cloying, fermented with nectar and tempered with honey. It burnt going down and the sweetness gave way to a sour taste in his mouth that complemented the one already there.

After Chilmalma, he recounted, came Tlaloc. His eldest son. Tlaloc, too, had taken the sacrifice with dignity and honor, like his sister. Again – rain, green, prosperity, heroism… and then famine after a few short months.

What, Yamash asked himself when he'd reached his third drink, was I doing wrong?

He'd given up blood for the hungry ones, just like the old ways of Zaltec called for. The blood of his own, for that matter – in the old texts and legends, one heart had been more than enough to satisfy Zaltec's hunger for months, and a noble heart meant more still. The texts – rather, the fragments of the texts – had told him that. He had pored over them for days while the crowds thronged outside, looking for any information or clue the faded scraps had to offer, but the cloths said nothing. For now, it looked like only another heart would do, and he was fast running out of children to lend to the cause.

Perhaps… he thought, his inner monologue pensive as he put his words together. Perhaps… there's more to this than you know. More to this than was written.

"You have all there is! What more could there be?!"

Yamash stood up and whirled upon the voice, his robes flying and eyes burning, but there was no one there – he was talking to himself. He laughed weakly and took a deep breath to compose himself, shaken by the experience. He'd never spoken to himself before. Of course, he was drunk. And he'd never sacrificed his own children until a few months ago either. Once calm, he looked into the amber depths of his cup and resumed his train of thought.

More than was written. Maybe. It was hard to tell. The answer isn't in the texts. Seek the words of that which is long buried…

"I do not know what that means…" he said aloud, in a tone more whiny than he'd intended. With shaking hands, he poured a fourth glass. The golden liquid looked up at him, and his reflection spoke.

You do. Think, Yamash. Think to what the priests that came before you told you. About Qotal. About Zaltec. About the jungle.

"The jungle?"

The jungle. It's in the jungle you'll find your answers.

The thought lingered there in silence for a very long time. Then, abruptly – in a flurry of macaw feathers and dust – Yamash fled the building.

Back in Athkatla's Temple District, Helm was honored with a great building of stone and marble, with gilt trim surrounding his everwatching eye. The priests in their finery carried censers made of precious metals, and art from the best painters and sculptors in the Realms adorned the walls and corridors. Anomen had personally seen to one of those sculptures, helping to secure a truly disgusting amount of illithium for the damned thing… but even with the newest, hideous piece of art, the air of the place was pure richness. Athkatla's Temple of Ilmater, on the other hand, was a rickety shack atop the Copper Coronet. In Payit, the temple was a squat mud building surrounded by thorny shrubs, upon which rough lanterns hung. Not too different from home, Anomen thought, though he kept his opinion to himself.

"'Bread-breaking'," he said instead, flanked by Morach on one side and townsfolk on the other. The half-orc managed to tower over him when they both stood, and he looked down at the Watcher's voice, even though he was blindfolded. "I somehow doubt this is as straightforward a process as the name implies."

The distance between the half-orc's hut and the temple was short, but they'd been walking slowly for Anomen's sake. Morach chuckled at his companion. "It's more complex, yes, but part of a… a culture of sorts we've created here. If that makes sense."

"A tradition?" Anomen offered, sidestepping a child weaving through the crowd. My, but there were a lot of people out this evening, and all of them seemed to be going in their direction. They paid the Helmite a rather wide berth for the most part, which suited him just fine.

"Yes! Tradition. That's a far better word. It's a tradition we've made with the townsfolk. Our first sign of fellowship was to break bread with the people of Ulatos, and we've repeated it every tenday since we came here."

The Helmite thought about that, scratching his chin. Off-handedly, he noticed his beard had grown, but pushed the thought out of his head – that sort of nonsense could be dealt with later. "The support of these folk must be integral for you all," he remarked. "Especially if, as you said, you represent the 'human' side of the Legion's affairs." He couldn't resist a barb from their earlier conversation.

"Now who isn't being fair?" The two priests reached an accord over the last day and, though the pair was perhaps not exactly "friends", neither was above some playful banter. "It's true, though; we priests all live to serve. Without people, we'd all just be little bands of wishful martyrs."

They reached the temple. Outside, a halfling man with red armbands was ringing a bell, and the pair jostled through the crowds, ducking into the building mere moments before a group of clergy in grey and red robes closed the doors behind them. The small temple was packed from one end to the other, save for the space at the front where Sister Mersk was standing, her back to the assembly. Her hair was still in the messy braid she'd worn earlier, but she now wore a red skullcap and had put on robes that looked out of place for such a humble setting and for a woman who was clearly used to hard work. Dove grey and immaculate, with red embroidery and other tracings, it was a fine garment that probably originated in a much grander place, and seemed at odds to the rough clothes of most of the people that had gathered.

Once more, the halfling's bells rang, and the assembly went from a loud hum to near silence; Katara briefly finished her incantation, then turned and faced the crowd. For a moment, she caught Anomen's eye and offered a slight nod before softly ordering, "Let us pray." The Helmite bowed his head in respect, following the lead of the congregation, but remained quiet.

"O Crying God – we thank you for your guidance this Tenday past, and thank you for making it such that we can all be gathered here today. You have steered us through the first great storm of the season; our crops have been spared and we have suffered little. To show our thanks, today we break the bread from wheat we've sown, reaped, dried, and ground, in the name of the Broken One." The hum of the building increased as people added their own words and repeated what she'd had to say. Katara chuckled softly, causing Anomen to look up and see that she was looking at him. Inquisitively, he cocked his head to the side, but she shook hers in response.

"Blessings," she continued, this time addressing the crowd more naturally, as if she was speaking to a friend rather than a large assembly of people, "are strange things, difficult things to interpret. We have all found ourselves on paths we didn't expect, on courses that, at first blush, seem contrary to what we need, or what we may want."

Helm knew that was definitely the case for him.

"As we eat tonight, take a moment to think of blessings, both overt and in disguise. An enemy who turned out to be your staunchest friend, or finding yourself 'lost' when truly, you were right all along." She raised her hand and several members of the audience, Morach included, stood and made their way to the front of the room. "As we eat tonight, think of the paths you have tread, and where they have led you, and rejoice – for you all are exactly where you should be."

The loaves began to circulate around the room, and someone passed one to Anomen. He was reluctant at first, but ultimately accepted it, turning it around in his hands a few times while the sermon went on. He'd grown up fairly devout and that hadn't changed much as he'd aged, at least until fairly recently; this was not the type of service he was used to.

Katara licked her lips, wetting them before the continuing. "I am not in the habit of proselytizing, as most of you know. The Broken God's house is open to all, regardless of origin or creed, and shall remain so as long as our temple is standing; it takes a unique soul to wish to join our ranks, and far more so if one seeks to devote themselves to the clergy. Still…" She wrung her hands together as there were some chuckles from her audience. "Ilmater is a God of those who suffer. We all know someone who is suffering in some way, shape, or form. Brother Morach lost his sight when he was led astray by an idol's false promises three years ago… Sister Cauly's –" she gestured to a sullen-looking Halfling in frayed grey robes "— husband and brother died when they were attacked by bandits. If you have lived in this world, you have felt death or grief; you've suffered, and it's a sobering thought to know that life will never stopbeingpainful, that perhaps the worst is yet to come. And yet… you stand here." She drew a breath. "You all stand here tall, noble, with the strength to keep your heads up, live life righteously, and break bread with your fellow man.

"But - my desire to not force my faith on others aside - there are few things nobler than easing another soul's pain. A calming gesture, or a kind word of support – I challenge each and every man and woman here today to better their world by taking on a bit of someone elses' burden, and trusting someone take on a bit of yours. That sharing creates a bond that can never be broken, a tie that binds." She held up her forearms, bound with their crimson ribbons. "We priests have a sayong – "while these cords bind thy wrists, thou shall never waver". You may not be Ilmatari, but Gods know we could use more toes to one another, more kindness, truth, and relief in this world." She held up her loaf of bread, and the congregation followed suit; in masse, they broke the loaves.

"It is done," Morach said in his gruff voice from her left side.

"So shall it be," the priests responded, followed by the faithful in the assembly, and then… the service was over. There was no scripture, and no kneeling, no censers of burning incense and the hymns of chanting priests echoing off of marble walls – people ate their bread, chatted with their neighbors, and went home.

Morach was busy with the rest of the Ilmatari, so Anomen was alone in the back of the temple. He pulled apart his small loaf, thinking about Katara's simple sermon. Gods knew indeed that he could be kinder, a less brooding soul, but it was the 'blessing in disguise' bit that had struck him the most. A 'blessing' indeed – to get a head wound on the beach and forget why he was even in Maztica.

Why here, though? he asked himself. He seemed to recall the answer being clear just a few days ago, and now a three minute lecture by a woman he'd barely even met and a concussion made everything as clear as mud. In his hands, the bread had crumbled from worrying the crusts with his calloused fingers. He sighed, went outside, and scattered it for the birds that also made the Breaking of Bread their tenday ritual.

The sky was darkening and the first stars of evening were coming out; compared to Athkatla, where the skies were darkened by the city's smoke, the celestial sphere above Maztica was breathtaking. Jewel-like stars and Gods knew what else glittered in the sky, casting a friendly light on everything below; they almost seemed to wink at him. He'd long since retreated into his own headspace and thoughts when a softly accented voice asked from behind:

"Copper for your thoughts?"

"My lady?"

"Katara, if you please." The priestess took a step forward out of the shadows that lurked just beyond the lantern light of the doorway, and followed his gaze upwards. "Odd… Somehow, you didn't struck me as a man interested in the stars."

Anomen didn't know how to respond to that, so he didn't. At his silence, Katara frowned to herself. "What's on your mind, Sir Delryn?"

He dragged his eyes down, away from the night sky and to the Ilmatari. "Anomen," he corrected her. "And it's… difficult to say, exactly."

"Try?"

Something about her phrasing brought to mind another recent conversation he'd had with himself; funny how often that had been happening lately. "For one, I was trying to remember what drew me here, to the New World. For all I keep asking, the answer eludes more and more. And secondly…" he paused, thinking of the best way to say what was on his mind without sounding like a lunatic, "I keep experiencing… a sort of déjà vu. Certain phrases, or tones keep recalling to my mind conversations I've had before yet there's no recollection beyond those shadows. Hm." He sighed. "The former I cannot help. The latter is likely due to the fall at the beach. Head wounds play tricks on their patients, in my experience."

"You were a healer before a soldier?"

"Aye. For some time before the Order and my knighthood, and many years afterwards as well… why do you ask?"

"I… was just thinking how serendipitous it is that the Church of Helm is getting a healer now, instead of another conquerer." She avoided his gaze, having turned her own temporarily to her fraying armbands.

She hadn't sounded passive-aggressive before, at Morach's hut, but she'd certainly crossed that line now. "If your dislike of Helmites needs be expressed that way, then why are we even speaking?" he snapped.

Katara held up her hands in a calming gesture and look at him once more. "I'm sorry… that was ill-phrased of me. Hear me out, please. Why do you think I spoke about blessings in disguise and relieving one another's pain back there?" Anomen looked at her expectantly. "Some 'social engineering' had to be done. You're too far from Helmsport to receive a good reception here without help. You haven't yet seen how the people here view Helmites, and wait until you go to Ulatos or Helmsport. Especially Helmsport."

The Nemontemi man. Even though he was dark skinned, Anomen's expression was of chagrin when he recounted the words he'd said to him.

At that, the Ilmatari revised her words. "Perhaps you have seen it after all, after all. Jaereth says you'll be leaving soon and not to meddle, but as leaders, it's our responsibility to keep our guests safe, even if that means keeping you safe from the people we shelter. They're farmers here, but there are warriors but a few miles up the road, and… many of your kind have worked to ensure that the Mazticans are a broken people."

"I…" he had trouble forming coherent words for what he was feeling. Anger? Confusion? A vague sense that he was the last person in on something? "I have no words. I hardly expected either such social manipulation or words to come from one of your ilk."

Katara's grin was slightly sheepish. "I'm Waterdhavian. We're all about social manipulation." A pause, then, "But truly, take my words under consideration, Anomen. Get to know the locals, listen to their words, 'go native', as it were. Too few of the Helmites have bothered to do so, and it shows. There's more here than head wounds and meddling priests."

"I'll take it under advisement." He bowed stiffly, wanting to leave that damned temple, but his manners kept him in check. "Sufferer."

"Watcher." Katara nodded to him, then slipped back into the building, leaving Anomen outside, alone.

The jungle air was heavy and oppressive, even though it hadn't rained in weeks. The trees held their breath; when the trees are silent, so too are the creatures that live upon and in them. Yamash walked amongst them both fearfully and in awe, afraid to touch their damn bark or disturb any of the colorful bromeliads and orchids he passed. At any moment, his brain reminded him, a jaguar could pounce upon him silently and rip out his throat, or an army of ants could march upon and over him, leaving his stripped bones laying silent on the jungle floor.

The jungle was, for lack of any other description Yamash could think of, dangerous. "That's why those who came before stayed out of it," he said to himself.

Hush. Look up.

The trees had suddenly given way into a clearing. He turned his gaze skyward, as commanded, and there - shrouded in the mists – loomed a pyramid.

Climb, the voice commanded.