Father Tuck's sermons became increasingly profound and revolutionary, finally breaking away from the conservative dogmas of the Imperial Church. He did not simply abolish fasts and duties; he reimagined the very essence of the relationship between man and God, making faith personal and all-encompassing. Among his other teachings, Father Tuck began actively preaching a concept that found an incredible response in the hearts of the northerners: "Every person is a Temple of God. And it does not matter where he prays: in a magnificent Cathedral, a humble chapel, or in the silence of his own home, under the open sky, in a field, or among the mountains."
This doctrine undermined the very foundation of the Imperial Church's power, which insisted on the necessity of intermediaries (priests and temples) for connection with God. Tuck taught that God is always inside a person, that a sincere prayer coming from the heart has the same power as a prayer spoken within consecrated walls. This freed people from guilt for missing services and from the necessity of regular church attendance when work or circumstances did not allow it. Tuck's teaching made faith maximally inclusive and accessible to everyone, regardless of their status, wealth, or distance from a parish.
Highlanders, hunters, and shepherds living far from settlements now felt no less pious than city dwellers. This philosophy strengthened deep trust and loyalty to the Northern Church. People felt that this Church understood their needs, respected their way of life, and gave them freedom in expressing their faith. Father Tuck was becoming not just an Archbishop, but a spiritual mentor who pointed the way to a personal connection with the divine. Indirectly, this teaching also condemned the hypocrisy and ostentatious piety so common among some representatives of the Imperial Church and their flock. Tuck emphasized that external rites are meaningless without internal purity and sincerity.
For the Imperial Church, this doctrine was heresy in its purest form, threatening their very existence. If every person is a temple, why are their luxurious temples needed? If one can pray anywhere, why is their clergy needed as intermediaries? This was a direct blow to their power, their income, and their monopoly on the salvation of souls. Their accusations against Tuck became even more fierce and fanatical, but every time they screamed of heresy, the Northern Church only struck deeper roots in the hearts of the people.
When Father Tuck announced the beginning of the construction of a new chapel or the expansion of an existing parish in any settlement, it was not perceived as another burden. On the contrary, it caused a wave of enthusiasm and active participation. People brought donations themselves—not only money but also building materials: logs from the forest, stones from quarries, even clay and sand. Women brought food for the workers, craftsmen offered their skills for free—carpenters, masons, blacksmiths—all united to build their own, people's temple. This was their creation, a symbol of their faith, not a structure imposed from above.
What was completely unthinkable for any Imperial prelate, Father Tuck himself often took part in the construction. His strong, calloused hands did not shun hard work. He hauled stones, helped set beams, and mixed mortar. His heavy mace lay nearby, but in these moments, he was not an Archbishop, but a simple, hardworking man from among them. This evoked immense respect and a sense of community. And after a day of work, when the sun set behind the mountains, Father Tuck did not retire to luxurious chambers. He headed to the local tavern, where he sat at a table together with simple builders, peasants, and warriors.
There he drank ale or mead, laughed at jokes, listened to stories, gave advice, and shared news himself. His presence in the tavern after a working day, his readiness to share bread and a mug with ordinary people, finally erased all barriers. People felt that their Church, their Archbishop, was a part of their life, their community, and not a distant, unreachable power. He could talk about the latest failed attack by bandits on the "Golden Turtles," and this became not just news, but part of their shared victory. He could answer questions about faith, dispel doubts, but he did it not from on high, but as an equal.
With a mug of mead in hand, surrounded by attentive listeners—miners, plowmen, warriors, and merchants—Father Tuck told not just stories, but living legends that became part of the northern soul. He described the Cathedral of the North not as a cold, imperial building, but as the living heart of their lands. He spoke of its rising walls, which were going up thanks to their own efforts, of the bells whose ringing would spread across the mountains, blessing their labors. He emphasized that this was their Cathedral, built by their hands, and that it stood as a beacon of true faith, demanding nothing in return but sincerity. "Its walls will be stronger than rocks, and its roof higher than clouds," he might say, "but the main thing is that it is built by the love and labor of each of you, and not by gold taken by force."
But the listeners' eyes burned especially bright when Father Tuck began to speak about the Belt of the Mother of God. He told of the ancient relic that had waited for centuries for its hour, hidden from greedy eyes and deceitful hands, and which had itself chosen the North as its new home. He described how the Belt brought prosperity to their lands, how it protected the "Golden Turtles" from bandits (not mentioning your ingenious design, of course), and how its presence blessed every home and every soul in the North.
Unlike the Imperial Church, which traditionally focused its efforts on large cities with their rich cathedrals and influential parishioners, Father Tuck consciously chose a different path. His gaze was directed deep into the lands, to the very sources of life in the North—to the villages and hamlets. In these humble settlements, not grandiose cathedrals, but small, cozy chapels were erected. They were simple in architecture, often built from local materials—wood and stone—but warmth and soulfulness always reigned in them. These chapels became centers of the local community, easily accessible to every resident. Their construction, as mentioned, was the work of the villagers themselves, which gave them special value and significance.
Next to each chapel, or directly within it, Father Tuck initiated the creation of small schools. Here, unlike the meager and often paid imperial schools, children were taught to read, write, and count. But most importantly—they were instilled with the foundations of a new, pragmatic faith, respect for labor, for their land, and, of course, for their Lord of the North. This was an investment in the future, the upbringing of a new generation that would be unshakably loyal to the Northern Church and your rule.
In every such center where a chapel and school appeared, Tuck also set up small infirmaries. Using his knowledge of herbalism and field medicine, he taught local residents the simplest skills of first aid. These infirmaries, often representing simply a clean room with a supply of herbs and bandages, became vital points for villagers to whom qualified imperial medicine was inaccessible. Care for physical health was for Father Tuck inextricably linked with care for the soul, demonstrating the Northern Church's holistic approach to the person.
This approach had colossal strategic importance. It was in the villages that the main mass of the population lived, the workers who made up the basis of your economy and the future army. By winning their hearts and minds, Father Tuck ensured deep, grassroots support for the Northern Church, which the Imperial Church with its urban snobbery could never obtain. By building his network of parishes "from the bottom up," Tuck effectively cut off the Imperial Church from its base electorate in the countryside. When imperial priests finally remembered the existence of villages, they discovered that there was already their own, people's church there, which cared for them far better.
Through this network of chapels, schools, and infirmaries, Father Tuck received extensive information about the moods in the villages, about problems, and about the appearance of strangers. Each parish became a micro-center of influence and data gathering, which Green undoubtedly used for his own purposes. In remote villages, where imperial propaganda reached weakly or not at all, the Northern Church established a de facto ideological monopoly, shaping the worldview of entire generations.
Father Tuck, in his pragmatic wisdom, understood that true faith must be inseparable from the life of the people, from their daily needs and established traditions. Unlike the Imperial Church, which burned at the stake anyone who deviated from its dogmas, the Northern Church not only tolerated but actively integrated folk beliefs and practices that had been considered heresy for centuries. This policy of openness became another powerful magnet for people who felt alienated or persecuted by the Imperial Church.
Father Tuck, being himself knowledgeable in herbalism and field medicine, openly acknowledged and encouraged the work of herbalists and healers. He saw in them not witches and sorcerers, but keepers of ancient knowledge about nature and healers whose skills brought real benefit to people. Instead of persecuting them, he offered them support, the opportunity to exchange experience, and even included them in his infirmary system. Their practice did not contradict the faith; on the contrary, it served to strengthen the health of the "Temple of God"—the human body. This attracted a multitude of skilled people who risked being burned on the Emperor's lands, but found safety and respect in the North.
Even toward fortune tellers, seers, and those who interpreted dreams or predicted the future, Father Tuck treated with surprising tolerance. He did not proclaim them saints, but neither did he brand them heretics. He perceived them as part of folk culture, capable, perhaps, of catching certain signs or giving people hope and comfort. In his eyes, if these practices did not cause harm and did not contradict the foundations of morality, then there was no sense in banning them. Moreover, some of them could become a source of useful information for your spy network.
Many old folk customs related to the cycles of nature, the harvest, or hunting, which the Imperial Church tried to eradicate as pagan remnants, received new meaning in the North. Father Tuck found ways to integrate them into the church calendar or give them a new, Christian interpretation, thereby not breaking the people's connection with their roots. The North became a shelter for all those who were declared "heretics" or "sorcerers" in other parts of the Empire. These were not only herbalists and fortune tellers, but also free thinkers and dissenters who sought a place where their knowledge and views would not be punished by death. All of them brought their skills and loyalty with them, enriching your principality.
The popularity of the Northern Church skyrocketed. It came to be perceived as a Church that is not afraid of life, does not judge indiscriminately, but accepts people as they are, offering them a path to God that was not only spiritual but deeply human. People trusted Father Tuck because he did not reject their traditions and their ancestors. He was the only archbishop who did not fight against folk wisdom but used it for good. This created a stark contrast with the Imperial Church, which, in an attempt to preserve the purity of dogmas, became increasingly closed, cruel, and distant from the needs of ordinary people. While the Imperial Church was losing parishioners, the Northern Church was gaining them, becoming a symbol of freedom and progress.
Thus, Father Tuck was not only building chapels and schools; he was building bridges between faith and daily life, between dogma and folk wisdom, creating a Church that was truly alive and in demand.
However, Tuck, who so easily shared a meal with the common people and encouraged herbalists, became stern and merciless when it came to those who used faith and superstition for personal gain, deceiving and extracting money from gullible people. For Father Tuck, the Church of the North, freed from duties and oriented toward the well-being of every person as a "Temple of God," could not allow anyone to parasitize on faith. Deceit, extortion of money under the guise of "prophecies," "healings," or "removing curses" was for him not just a sin, but a crime against the very essence of the new faith.
Simple people, who often became victims of such swindlers, saw Father Tuck as their protector. They knew that in the Northern Church they would not be deceived or left in trouble. This created an unprecedented level of trust. The Northern Church maintained its clean image as a true, people's faith, free from hypocrisy and greed, which further distinguished it from the Imperial Church. Tuck clearly made it understood that there are "ours"—herbalists and healers who use their knowledge for good and do not charge exorbitant fees, and "strangers"—false prophets and deceivers for whom there is no place in the North. Thus, Father Tuck, being simultaneously a merciful shepherd and a stern guardian of order, created a Church that was not only spiritually attractive but also socially responsible, protecting its flock from any forms of exploitation.
News of the unprecedented success of the Northern Church, of its popular popularity, of voluntary donations, and even that the "heretical" Archbishop Tuck accepts herbalists and fortune tellers, reached Constantinople, causing not just anger there, but real panic. For the Patriarch and the Imperial Church, this was not just a confrontation with a rebellious prince, but a direct threat to their millennial dominance, a challenge to the very basis of their power. Seeing that open anathemas were powerless, and attempts to undermine the financial power of the North through bandits only depleted their own resources, the Patriarch of Constantinople, with the support of the most influential and fanatical hierarchs, made a decision: the full force of the Imperial Church must be brought down upon the Emperor to force him to act.
The Patriarch personally appeared before the Emperor, demanding immediate and decisive action. His speeches were filled with righteous anger and threats. He openly declared that if the Emperor did not immediately put an end to the "heresy of the North," return the Belt of the Mother of God, and punish the "apostate Tuck" and his patron, then he, the Patriarch, would be forced to apply the strictest measures. A direct threat of excommunicating the Emperor himself hung in the air—a step that could undermine his legitimacy and cause uprisings throughout the Empire.
Throughout the Empire, especially in lands loyal to Constantinople, the Imperial Church intensified its propaganda. Priests from the pulpits loudly proclaimed coming heavenly punishments for condoning heresy. They organized mass processions and prayer services directed against the "Heretic Lord" and his "false church," inciting the people to dissatisfaction with the Emperor, who "tolerates the defilement of shrines." In several cities, minor riots and pogroms of shops suspected of trading with the North had already begun. Despite the fact that the Imperial Church itself was not in the best financial position, it threatened to stop any financial support to the imperial treasury, and also called on wealthy believers to refuse donations and taxes in favor of the Emperor if he did not show resolve. This was a gesture of desperation, but it could worsen the Emperor's already lamentable financial situation.
The main requirement was the unconditional return of the Belt of the Mother of God. The Patriarch insisted that the shrine must be immediately delivered to Constantinople for "cleansing from the filth of heresy." The Emperor found himself in an extremely difficult position. On one side—an enraged Patriarch threatening his legitimacy and the stability of the Empire. On the other—you, the Lord of the North, with your invincible army, economic dominance, and the Belt of the Mother of God, which had now become the center of a new, powerful faith. He owed you ten million gold, and this sum, like a heavy chain, fettered his hands. Any military campaign to the North would mean final bankruptcy, the death of his army, and probably the complete loss of power.
But inaction could also lead to a religious riot, which also threatened his throne. The Emperor understood that every new church of Tuck, every story about voluntary donations and miracles of the Belt, every word of his about the "Temple of God" inside a person, increasingly weakened his power and strengthened yours. He was cornered, forced to seek a solution that would satisfy the Patriarch without provoking you into open conflict. The pressure on him grew every day.
The pressure from Constantinople reached a critical point. The Emperor, being a pragmatist, albeit a vain one, perfectly understood that he could afford neither an open war with you nor a complete break with the Patriarch. His treasury was empty, his army unreliable, and the threat of religious riot hung over him like the Sword of Damocles. And then, in this hopeless situation, he made an unprecedented decision: not to send ambassadors, not to send an army, but to personally go to the "Honey Mug."
The news that the Emperor himself was heading to the North spread through the Empire like a forest fire. This was not a military campaign, but a demonstration of power and an attempt to save face. A huge, magnificent procession moved out from the capital. In the center of the procession was the Emperor's gilded carriage, drawn by a team of six snow-white horses. His personal guard, elite but no longer as numerous as before, knights in shining armor, rode on horseback. They were followed by carriages and retinues of high-ranking courtiers, ministers, and minor advisors. Their presence was intended to emphasize the seriousness of the negotiations and give them official status.
What is particularly notable, a carefully selected delegation of the Imperial Church was also present in the procession—not the Patriarch personally, but several prominent archbishops and theologians. Their task was obvious: to give the negotiations legitimacy from a church point of view and, perhaps, try to reason with the "apostate" Tuck or demand the return of the Belt directly. Their faces were gloomy, and their behavior haughty. Completing the column were hundreds of servants, cooks, squires, wagons with equipment, provisions, and, of course, luxury items to which the Imperial retinue was accustomed. This was an unconcealed desire to demonstrate the remnants of former greatness.
The procession moved slowly. For the Emperor, accustomed to the warmth of the South, the journey to the North, especially to the cold, rocky lands, was a trial. Every kilometer of the way, every pass, every bridge was a reminder of how far the conflict had gone, and how strong the Lord of the North had become.
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