(A series of parchments, written in hastily scribbled handwriting, recovered
from behind a painting of the Vernal Goddess Juliana in the Shallamurine
Cathedral...)

My name is Verna.

I am a priestess of the Shallamurine Cathedral, a human by birth, from a simple
farm on the outskirts of Stewartsville. I chose to devote myself to the service
of the Emanations and the beautiful plane of Shallamar.

Ours is a simple life - we worship, we embark on pilgrimages, preaching to the
villages and city-states loyal to the Most Holy Empire.

But something has gone terribly wrong. We are no longer allowed to write,
anymore - I don't know how long I will last, but I will tell what little I can
of our tale. My fellow sisters, the White Priestess herself... our
once-sacrosanct home is now defiled.

-------

You see, our Cathedral was built on an isolated plateau in the midst of
Avechna's Teeth. Few bothered us - this is... was... a holy site, sometimes
visited even by the Emperor Landantine himself. Aside from occasional caravans,
we were left undisturbed.

That was our first sign that something was wrong. The caravans stopped coming.

We had our own gardens, fortunately. But nobody eats anymore. By the Nine, not
even I must eat anymore. This is unnatural. The gardens are overgrown now... a
tangled mass of vines and weeds, lifeless as the rest of this prison.

-------

It looks like I've lost Shihami to this madness, too. She was my last friend.
Now? She is cold, almost mechanical.

Our convent did not have access to the aether broadcasts of the Empire, so we
didn't know what had happened. An apocalypse, almost. They were distractions,
Marani told us. Ours was a duty of faith and service, nothing more. We obeyed.
We always obeyed.

Marani was the one who lead is in our yearly Rites - some sort of magic that
renewed our bonds with beautiful Shallamar. That was the second sign that
something had gone wrong.

We all gathered in the Amphitheatre, as requested. The chamber thrummed with
chatter. "The glory of Shallamar will shelter us", said one priestess. There was
a murmur of agreement. I felt the first signs of lingering doubt plague my
heart.

The White Priestess arrived from the main chamber of the alcoves - beautiful as
ever, golden fins splayed down her back like lustrous hair, telltale platinum
skin shining with power, garbed in robes of crimson, violet eyes alight with
mirth and joy as if defying all weariness and stress our isolation could have
caused her.

She began the Rites, raising her voice in a hymn to Shallamar and the
Emanations, praising Ashtorath, Luciphage, Baalphegar, Nifilhema and Gorgaleil
in turn. Our voice joined with hers.

The Rite was cut abruptly short. One of the priestesses broke her song, letting
forth a piercing shriek. The rest of us remained singing, our notes droning on
endlessly despite the burning protests of our lungs. We were frozen.

We had touched Shallamar with our spirits - blessed, beautiful Shallamar. It was
devastating. A vast presence, alien and terrible, touched our minds with a
chilling touch that burned with a single desire: consumption.

-------

The memories are blurry. I can recall Marani glowing with power, her violet eyes
ablaze with combined might and agony. My fellow priestesses gradually collapsed,
as well. My lungs kept burning. The pain wouldn't stop - please, I begged what
little gods I had left to turn to - make the pain stop!

Marani's voice cut off. Mine was hardly even a gasp. Hers turned from a song and
into a mad, shrieking laugh that shattered the now-alien tranquility of the
cathedral.

I felt my knees give out as I slammed to the polished floor, breathless, chest
heaving.

I did not know just how lucky I was, looking as though I'd blacked out like the
rest of them.

-------

Everyone came too within an hour or so. Marani was harsh. We were dismissed to
our duties, amidst a whirlwind of wide-eyed whispering.

It was a week before anyone came to question what had occurred during the Rite -
likely because Marani now prowled the cathedral, deadly eyes glaring at our
backs, as if driving needles into our very hearts.

It was Muut's sister. She approached Marani as she was relaxing beneath a
trellis in the gardens. I was tending the rose bushes with Neinrin, at the time.
She was too far away.

"White Priestess."
"Sister. Why do you bother me?"
"W-w-we are w-wondering... what ha-happened. At the R-rite."
Her reply chilled me to the bone.
"There will be no more Rites."
"W-what?! But.. White Priestess!"
"Did I stutter? There will be no more Rites."
"That i-is sacrilege! It is ag-against our duty!"
"You will not tell me what my duty is, mortal."

There was a rush of power; a shriek formed in the air, brutally cut off; the
patter of copious blood splashing the ground.

We never found the body.
We never looked for the body.

-------

I don't know why it took so long, but it took a month after that. Everyone
changed. Shihami's eyes lost her sparkle - she just sat on her divan, as usual,
working. She behaved the same, but her voice had lost its passion and humour.

Nobody dared to speak anymore - if there was anyone left to speak. The
isolation- it is maddening!

I CHANGED, too! I was gardening. I always loved gardening. The roses... so
lively!

No! Not anymore. They're dead. Everything is dead. The roses to not wilt; pale
reflections of their former glory. The pine trees do not release their needles.
This place is a frozen portrait; a painting of a nightmare.

I pulled a weed; I felt a creeping feeling, like slick mud and silt, sliding
over my skin, and somehow through my body as well. I couldn't move - a scream
froze in my throat, just as a chill replaced every feeling in my body.

I don't know how long I sat there, frozen over the bed of roses. Nobody came for
me. There's nobody left to come for me.

(the writing becomes erratic, almost unreadable)

I became an abomination. I don't think I live, any longer - there is no life
here. This is not a cathedral, this is a monument of shackles. This is
sacrilege. I AM SACRILEGE. I must be pure. I failed in that duty. My duty to
blessed Shallamar.

(the script resumes with chilling precision and clarity)

I serve Shallamar. I serve the White Priestess. Nothing else matters.

I breathe, but my lungs work no longer.
My feelings are but hollow reflections of what they once were.
And, deep in my chest, most haunting of all:
My heart beats no longer.