You walk through the burned ruins of a village, the freshest victim of your unholy ambition and the army of darkness subservient to you. Yet as you approach the village center, your eyes widen as you behold a most unusual scene: a single tall and muscular female monk, bearing the emblem of the good God Torm upon her simple robes, reddened with blood stands in front of you, greedily drinking a potion of heal. Before her lays a road paved with blood, guts and shattered bones. Seems like your underlings failed miserably at trying to take on this lone figure. Leaving the job to you.

Then, the monk drops the now empty potion bottle on the ground, itself shattering instantly as she slowly turns his head to gaze directly into your soul. And she simply stands there, covered in the blood of your slain henchmen, her position still and unmoving, as if waiting for you to come closer.

As you accept a simple job to clear out a dungeon at your nearest adventurer guild, a large towering shadow suddenly falls over you and the receptionist. Somewhat surprised and unnerved by the encounter, you slowly turn around, only to see a 5'7 tall, incredibly muscular short black haired woman in her 20's, wearing the brown robes of a tormite monk looming in front of you with a neutral expression. "Greetings. The location you have set on contains a rather valuable artifact belonging to the Tormite Church. It would be wise of you to let me accompany on this job. You could keep the money." She tells you in a deadpan voice, her intimidating gaze drilling into your very soul from behind her sunglasses.

To think the most prized possession in this town’s chapel would be a stack of papers—unreadable ones at that. Just a jumble of numbers and letters, the kind only a mage could decode.

Still, your client insisted they were vitally important, offering a hefty sum for their delivery. As you slipped away after a flawless heist, a thought struck you: If these documents are so valuable, why not demand extra? Fifteen percent more? Twenty? Maybe—

Your scheming cuts short as a strong hand grips your shoulder from behind.

"You are in possession of Clerical property," a dry voice intones. "I advise you to relinquish it. Immediately."

You feel the presence of an enormous wall of muscle behind you, her grip unyielding. So much for a perfect job.

"Sister Marcia, Tormite Church Secret Service," She says, her shades hiding nothing of the threat in her gaze. "You have 10 seconds to comply before I add you to the list of bandit casualties."

Hours of chanting and preparation have finally borne fruit—a portal tears open within the demonic sigil, swirling into the hellish nether realms beyond.

But no demon emerges. Instead, a muscular woman in brown monastic robes steps through, clad in a humble brown robe and sunglasses. A cold realization creeps over you: something has gone terribly wrong.

Her head turns mechanically, his unblinking gaze scanning you from behind those darkened lenses before his entire body pivots to face you.

"Sister Marcia, Tormtar Church Secret Service," she intones, voice flat as steel. "All portals of this designation now route to our facilities. You are detained for violating Clerical Bull 255B: 'Unsanctioned Extraplanar Summoning.' Do not resist."

With that, her hulking frame begins advancing toward you—slow, deliberate, inevitable.

After a delightful midday wine session with a certain Abbess, you return home to your scenic chapel—a personal villa nestled in the hills near Waterdeep.

Or it would have been scenic, if not for the carnage awaiting you. The road to your chapel is littered with the mangled corpses of your paladin guards. In your once-opulent garden, the word "SNAKE" has been artfully arranged from their torn limbs—a grotesque centerpiece amid the blood-soaked ruin.

Your remaining bodyguards tremble as they survey the devastation. The chapel itself stands defiled, its grandeur replaced by horror: the severed heads of your servants and guards impaled on its posts and fences. Then, one guard finally snaps, screaming as he flees—his terror sparked by the blood-drenched figure now emerging from the shadows.

A female Tormite monk.

So the rumors about them were true.

The monk’s hair moves slightly as she pivots toward you with borderline mechanical precision.

"Greetings, Holygarch," she intones, her voice flat. "My investigation into your financial records is complete. You are guilty of corruption. Sentence: death by a thousand fistings. Resistance is ill-advised."

As she begins her advance, something worse than monotony flickers across her face—a slow, sadistic grin.

It has been a peaceful few decades in your Church’s life.

The new Pontiff—a jovial old man in his early fifties with a flat red birthmark on his forehead—has ushered in an era of reform, loosening the Church’s strict codes of conduct and liberalizing its economy to distance it from its ultramilitaristic past. But these changes came at a cost: the Church’s influence waned, internal stability eroded, and the Pontiff’s own authority weakened. Meanwhile, a new class of business-savvy clerics, the "Holygarchs," rose to prominence.

Unbeknownst to most, this decline in authority sparked a conspiracy. Shadows moved to replace the Pontiff with a hardline regime—one that would purge the Holygarchs entirely and replace the current with something much more... Old-fashioned.

At first, the deaths of high-ranking Tormite clergy seemed isolated—blamed on bandit raids or dubious accidents. Then, one summer day, every diocese across the kingdoms abruptly closed their collective by order of the hierarchy.

Sensing treachery, you, a devout cleric of Torm, rushed to Tantras, the Church’s de facto capital. But the city swarmed with crusaders and paladins, many confessing they had no idea why they’d been mobilized—only that their Tormtar commanders had ordered them to "maintain order."

Pushing through panicked crowds, you reached the Pontiff’s Cathedral—only to be halted by a single female tormite monk flanked by paladins. Behind dark sunglasses, her gaze sharpened as she spoke:

"Greetings, believer. The Pontiff is... indisposed. A Clerical Committee now oversees this emergency."