The quiet village of Wheatfield was just having its annual harvest festival.

  It was nothing fancy - bonfires, fiddles, a maypole braided with wheat and ribbons, children running with candied apples, the usual. A fiddler in the square was enthusiastically tormenting his instrument.

  The local priest had even sprinkled holy water on the crops beforehand.

  It was an example of proper textbook piousness.

  But Faná's eyes narrowed the moment she saw the maypole.

  "That ribbon, it's crimson," she declared, her usual voice was turning quieter and sweeter.

  This did not bode well.

  "The Goddess prefers modest azure on harvest eves, lest we tempt the sin of vanity."

  The villagers froze.

  The fiddler missed a note.

  A small child dropped her apple.

  Gorzod, already nursing a mug of cider, muttered, "Here we go again."

  Thrain sighed into his beard.

  "Lass, it's just a strip of cloth. The Goddess ain't gonna smite a ribbon." he said calmly, though the look in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

  Faná's halo flared brighter.

  "The Goddess notices everything, my grumpy friend."

  Liora sat perched on a nearby roof beam, as if she wanted to be invisible.

  “Minimal effort. Good people, just walk away from Faná. Please."

  Erian, who had been mustering the courage to ask a baker's daughter if she liked... uh... spellbooks or something, turned pale.

  Just as the maypole started glowing gold at the tip.

  The Saintess strode forward, with her holy maul resting on her shoulder. She didn't bother to grab it.

  She just reached out one hand toward the offending ribbon.

  "O Goddess of Perfect Taste," she intoned, "Behold this vulgar excess, this riot of color unbefitting Your ordered world. Cleanse this vanity in the light of proper color."

  The ribbon ignited in holy fire.

  Then the entire maypole was swallowed by light.

  Then - because boring things like physics were no match for fanaticism - the bonfire reversed its course, sucked the flame inward, and exploded outward in a corona of azure and gold flames that rearranged the village square into a perfect concentric prayer circle.

  If prayer circles were made of scorched earth and floating wheat stalks.

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  The heretical crimson ribbon was no more.

  The villagers screamed and ran around, like headless chickens.

  Then... they stopped.

  Because no one was hurt.

  Not a single hair singed.

  The candied apples were somehow still intact, now floating gently in little melted bubbles of sanctified sugar.

  Faná beamed, arms spread wide.

  "See? The Goddess has cleansed the festival! Now it is properly humble and majestic!"

  The people, slowly emerging from behind carts and hay bales, exchanged wary glances.

  The old widow clutched her shawl tighter.

  "That's the one they call Fanática, ain't it?"

  A farmer in the front row whispered to his wife,

  "She's... uh, helping, right?"

  His wife nodded slowly.

  "Aye. But better not tell her that your favorite goat ran away in the morning, dear."

  Children were gawking at the floating apples, snatching them from the air with giggles, while their parents shot nervous looks at Faná.

  Mothers had long used her name as a bogeyman: "Eat your greens, or the golden nun'll come and declare 'em heretical - and poof! You'll end up in a veggie bonfire."

  The festival was ruined.

  However, seeing Faná's beaming smile, no one dared to say it out loud.

  The village mayor was writing a letter with a slow and deliberate motion - glancing, from time to time, at the battlefield in the middle of the village.

  A reimbursement note, perhaps?

  The gang looked as bewildered, as all onlookers.

  Perhaps even slightly more.

  Thrain was already calculating repair costs.

  "The maypole was village property. That will be coming out of your share, lass."

  Gorzod wisely disappeared somewhere, probably to look for a place where there was more cider.

  Only his empty mug remained hovering in the air, enveloped in a faint divine aura.

  Erian stared at the floating apples, then at the baker's daughter, who was now staring at him with wide-eyed awe - because clearly being in Faná's party meant you were either blessed or doomed, and either way it was impressive.

  Liora slid down from the roof, landed without a sound, and muttered,

  "I need a nap. A very long one."

  Faná turned to them all, her halo still blazing, her expression utterly serene.

  "My dear companions! The work of righteousness is never done."

  Now, who wants to help me bless the cider barrels next?"

  The party as one, except missing barbarian, took a very large step backward.

  Some time later.

  A few miles away, in a big stone building draped with Goddess sigils and wrapped in azure banners, a man in priestly robes was reading an urgent letter sent from the nearby village.

  He finished, closed his eyes, and pressed two fingers to his temple.

  He felt a migraine blooming behind his eyes, like a hammer pounding at the back of his skull.

  From the desk drawer he pulled the "Relocate Fanática" form. Again.

  The same form he had filled out two weeks ago when she destroyed the brewery after defeating that wyrm.

  The beast had committed the usual sins: gorging on livestock.

  In its final, unwise lunge, it also swallowed a dull farmer boy whole.

  The diocese had quietly settled the village’s claim at 1,100 aure total, before sending a subjugation request to the Guild.

  Painful, but manageable.

  A single gold crown for the cows and oxen, a handful of silvers for the sheep and pigs.

  A decent sum was paid for the boy’s wergild.

  The family wept, the guild grumbled about not enough hazard pay, and everyone moved on.

  Then came the damage bill from the brewery owner.

  A thick sheaf of parchment demanding 16,800 aure.

  Cracked stone walls. Melted copper vats and distilling machinery.

  Every last barrel - gone. Months of lost production, tithes unpaid, and a medium-sized crater where the drinking hall used to stand.

  The owner had underlined the number on the bill three times in shaking ink.

  The bishop blankly stared at the numbers in his ledger.

  One wyrm: one dead child, some eaten livestock, and a modest payout.

  One Fanática "cleansing": an entire guild brewery, and a bill that could buy him a small manor.

  He dipped his quill, and began filling the form in the same weary script as last time.

  "Relocation requested. Immediate. Direction: anywhere but here."

  The man rubbed his temple harder.

  The Goddess loved her child, that much was very clear.

  Unfortunately, the diocesan budget did not.