Meanwhile, she moved towards the townhouse with silent steps, her figure blending into the shadows. The door was slightly ajar, the hinges rusted and loose. She pushed it open carefully, her ears straining for any sign that she had been heard. The snoring continued, deep and rhythmic, and she slipped inside.

The interior was dark, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and stale bread. Ereshkigal’s eyes quickly adjusted, her gaze falling on the figure sprawled across a worn sofa—a man, clearly inebriated, his face half-buried in a pillow, an empty bottle still clutched in his hand. He mumbled incoherently in his sleep, oblivious to her presence.

She gathered the dress in her arms, pausing briefly as the man shifted in his sleep, his mumbling growing louder. He called out, his voice thick with sleep, "Martha? Is that you?" His arm moved, reaching out, his fingers brushing the edge of Ereshkigal's robe. Panic surged through her, her heart pounding as she froze, holding her breath. For a moment, she thought he might fully wake, his hand so close she could almost feel its warmth through the fabric. The man mumbled again, his arm dropping limply as he rolled over, his breathing evening out. She waited a heartbeat longer, her eyes fixed on him, until he settled once more. The tension in her body eased slightly, her fingers trembling as she adjusted her hold on the dress. She turned, making her way back towards the door as quietly as possible. She stepped over the threshold, slipping back into the night, the dress clutched tightly in her hands.

Once outside, she quickly donned the garment, tucking her hair under a scarf she had also taken from the house. Her hands were trembling slightly, her breath coming out in uneven gasps as she leaned against the wall, her heart still racing from the scare. She closed her eyes for a moment, muttering under her breath, "This is why I was never a thief in Anki." She emerged from the shadows, her lips twisted into a grimace of distaste. She tugged at the hem of the dress, discomfort radiating from every inch of her. It was a far cry from the dark robes she was accustomed to, and her displeasure was evident in every movement.

“Nice look,” Airlock commented, a smirk on his face. Though the smirk wasn't exactly about what Ereshkigal was wearing, it was all just because he was now victorious from the bet.

Ereshkigal shot him a glare, her eyes narrowing. “Say another word, and I’ll make sure you regret it,” she hissed, her tone low and threatening. Airlock raised his hands in mock surrender, though the smirk never left his face.

Barakas turned to Airlock, his expression a mix of annoyance and reluctant acceptance. He let out an exaggerated sigh, his thick fingers counting out the fifty gold coins with deliberate slowness. "...Damn it."

Trivia stepped forward, his eyes scanning over the group, his expression serious. “Stay close. We move together, no unnecessary risks. If anyone gets separated, we regroup at the old fountain in the center of the city.”

They all nodded, their expressions growing somber. The tension between them was palpable, the weight of their mission pressing down on each of them. They knew the dangers that awaited them within the city walls, the risks they were taking just by stepping foot inside.

With a final nod, Trivia led the way, his steps confident as he moved towards the city gates. The others followed, their disguises in place, their hearts pounding in their chests as they prepared to face whatever lay ahead.

The streets of Multires were choked with the presence of Tunderian soldiers, their banners unfurling in the soft wind. It seemed that every corner held men and women in crimson, and Ereshkigal kept her head low, trying to ignore their presence. They moved as a group, their formation loose enough to blend in, Barakas leading them deeper into the city, his steps confident as though he knew each stone by heart.

Their path took them through the courtyard of an old church, its ancient stones inscribed with prayers to Jabiroka, the god of blood and violence. Barakas’ footsteps slowed, his gaze drifting upwards to the familiar arch that loomed above them, etched in the dark language of his faith. As they passed beneath, a sudden shout broke through the quiet of the courtyard.

“BY JABIROKA! IT'S MISTER BARAAAAKAS!!!”

Barakas froze, his eyes going wide. Before he could react, a group of robed figures emerged from the church, their faces breaking into smiles of reverence and awe. The sight was both unexpected and alarming, and for a moment, Barakas seemed at a loss for words.

“Quick, bring out the trumpets! We’ve got to give him a proper reception!”

The people and the guards turned, their eyes now fixed on the group, whispers spreading like wildfire. The party stood stunned, and in that moment, all attention was on them—and it was clear there was no going back. The courtyard seemed to fill with energy, the faithful gathering, their eyes filled with a mix of reverence and curiosity.

Barakas straightened, his eyes brightening with joy at the sight of his own people. He was proud of Jabiroka, and it showed in the way he easily followed the priests, embracing their praise and enthusiasm. As they led him forward, a few of the faithful called out, asking why he was there.

"Barakas, what brings you to Multires?" one of them asked, his voice filled with awe.

Barakas smiled warmly, his eyes gleaming with pride. "I am on a mission, my friends. The path of Jabiroka has led me here, and I follow with unwavering faith," he replied, his voice strong and confident. His words seemed to resonate with the crowd, their admiration only growing.

The necromancer simply sighed, watching him with a hint of envy. She knew no one would ever praise her for anything like this—but then again, praise from a religion was not something that interested her. It was a scene that felt surreal, the sudden shift from stealth to spectacle. People were mere fools for acting in such a way.  

  

The crowd swelled, the faithful reaching for Barakas as they ushered him into the church, the clamor of voices calling for a blessing echoing through the ancient hall. Marnie and Airlock exchanged uneasy glances, their hands tightening on their respective cloaks, while Trivia watched with an amused expression that spoke volumes about the chaos yet to come. The air within the church was thick with incense, the scent mingling with the sounds of whispered prayers and footsteps shuffling across the stone floor.

Barakas moved towards the altar, his eyes taking in the familiar symbols of his faith, the crimson banners hanging from the walls, the dark stone of the building that seemed to absorb the very light that touched it. There was something comforting about the place, even as the situation felt increasingly complicated. He raised his hands, and the crowd quieted, their eyes fixed upon him with unwavering devotion.

As Barakas began to speak, his voice echoing through the church, Ereshkigal remained at the back, her expression unchanged. She watched as the crowd listened, their eyes closed in prayer, their voices rising in a low hum that filled the space like a living thing. Thán curled at her feet, his eyes half-closed, seemingly uninterested in the proceedings. She felt the unease building within her, the sense of being out of place, of being a stranger in this world of devotion and faith.

It was then that Barakas' eyes fell on her, his gaze narrowing. He paused for a moment, his lips curling into a sly smile. Without warning, he raised his voice, calling out above the murmurs of the crowd.

“And now, let us welcome a new soul into the fold,” he announced, his eyes locked on Ereshkigal. “Ereshkigal, step forward.”

The necromancer's eyes widened, her body tensing. She shook her head slightly, her lips parting in protest, but the crowd had already turned towards her, their expressions expectant. Barakas' smile widened, and he gestured for her to come forward, the gleam in his eyes daring her to refuse.

The church seemed to hold its breath as Ereshkigal slowly stepped forward, her movements reluctant, her face a mask of displeasure. She reached the altar, her eyes locking onto Barakas' as if to say, _you will pay for this._ He merely smiled, turning towards the gathered priests.

A goat was brought forward, its eyes wide and fearful. Ereshkigal’s heart sank as she realized what was about to happen. The priests moved with practiced ease, their hands steady as they opened the animal, the blood flowing into a shallow bowl. The smell was metallic and sharp, filling the air, and Ereshkigal felt a wave of nausea wash over her.

Barakas lifted the bowl, his gaze never leaving hers. He stepped closer, and without hesitation, he tilted the bowl, pouring the warm, thick blood over her head. The liquid flowed down her light hair, dripping onto her face, her shoulders, and soaking into her clothes. The sensation was both repulsive and humiliating, yet familiar, the blood sticky as it clung to her skin, its warmth a stark contrast to the cold indifference she tried to maintain. She fought to keep her expression stoic, her jaw clenched tightly, though her stomach churned with revulsion.

“By Jabiroka,” Barakas intoned, his voice solemn, “you are baptized into the faith. May it guide you through the hells and the depth, as his blood is now yours too.”

Ereshkigal clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing as she fought the urge to lash out. The crowd cheered, their voices echoing off the stone walls, and Barakas turned away, his expression one of satisfaction. Ereshkigal stepped back, her hands trembling slightly, the blood still wet on her skin. She could feel the eyes of the crowd on her, their cheers ringing in her ears, but all she felt was the cold anger simmering within her.

Marnie watched from the back, her expression troubled. She could see the tension in Ereshkigal’s posture, the way her hands clenched at her sides. She took a step forward, her eyes meeting Ereshkigal’s, offering a silent apology for what had just transpired. Marnie opened her mouth to speak, but Ereshkigal shook her head, her voice a harsh whisper. "Don't even." Ereshkigal turned away, her face hardening as she moved towards the shadows at the edge of the church, wanting nothing more than to escape the suffocating atmosphere of devotion.

Once the crowd began to disperse, Barakas glanced towards Ereshkigal, a teasing smile playing on his lips. "Red suits you better, Necromancer," he called out, his tone light, almost mocking as it echoed through the walls of the church.. Ereshkigal's eyes narrowed, her expression darkening, but she said nothing. There was no regret in Barakas' gaze—only the satisfaction of seeing her forced into the ritual. He turned away, his thoughts still focused on their mission as he moved towards the church doors.

Then, a figure in flowing crimson red robes stepped into the church, the heavy doors groaning as they swung shut behind him. The fabric of his robes shimmered faintly in the candlelight, and his every movement carried an aura of quiet authority. His footsteps were almost inaudible, the robes whispering against the stone floor as he advanced. His face was partially obscured by the deep hood, but his eyes, sharp and discerning, settled immediately on the group near the altar. His gaze lingered on the crimson stains covering Ereshkigal, a flicker of curiosity crossing his otherwise composed expression.