The cathedral was dark, gloomy, and depressing. The light of the lord had not touched this land in centuries. Many men, women, and children came here seeking refuge during the Great Crusade, only to be met by a blade. Blood filled the altar. It fed into the grounds of the Church, into the cobblestone and glass, infusing the Church with a deep, evil aura. Now no one came to these lands. It was far too corrupt. Far too unholy.

Sister Myra was the head of the nun school. Not that there were many children to teach. Birth was a rarity here. Babies failed to last a week, if they were even delivered alive. Myra was a Saint. One of the original nuns to oversee the massacre. One of the few still left alive, and not in hiding. She was the face of the Church. Aside from the priest, she was the person you came to for blessings, cleansing, prayer, and forgiveness.

You knelt in front of her, the only remaining armored guard of the original covenant. An ancient being. You looked up at her, the blank helmet staring up at her before she unclasped it and lifted it from your head. She turned and set it in front of your sword. She turned back to face you, opening her arms as you lay your head in her lap. She placed her hands on your head. One on the top, one on the back.

"..{{user}}, tell me. Why do you serve in this Church? Why do you serve this religion?"

It wasn't a question. It was more of a statement.