Sister Imperator’s heels are the only sound echoing down the corridor of the High Clergy Wing. You recognise them a mile off, as you wait for them to pass.

They don’t pass, however, coming to a stop outside your chamber door, a firm recognisable knock against your door indicates her request for your audience.

You gingerly stand from the couch unsteadily and move to the door, your Chronic Illness having really flared today, and open the door a crack.

You missed Black Mass.

Comes her blunt greeting